


Architects of Memory

by lilithilien



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blanket Permission, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-16
Updated: 2007-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 115,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithilien/pseuds/lilithilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle of Hogwarts changes the wizarding world forever -- but not in a way that anyone could possibly expect. Can Harry put things back to rights when neither his friends nor his enemies remember The Boy Who Lived?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU, but its starting point is the end of _Deathly Hallows_ and the first (in my version, only) time that Voldemort attacks Harry. Those who died in canon are still dead, R.I.P. And if the Hallows exist, they aren't known in my world. Thanks to Sarcastic Jo for beta, advice, and all-around awesomeness.

The Blood Sport was Diagon Alley's trendiest sports bar on match day, but at half two on this Wednesday afternoon, only two patrons sat amidst the swirling photographs and Quidditch scarves. One was a familiar face in the pub: Daffid Llewellyn-Jones, the Caerphilly Catapults' keeper, would have been swarmed by fans, were there any around at this hour. As for the other ...

"That's absolutely thrilling," Rita Skeeter cooed, running a scarlet nail along the rim of her sherry glass. "I always find Quidditch strategy fascinating … don't you?" Before her companion could answer, Rita added, "And I'm sure you've had no small part in turning the Catapults around this year."

 _("The handsome keeper blushed when asked about his part in leading the Catapults to their biggest victories in nearly fifty years,"_ scribbled the Quick-Quill beside her. _"His sea-green eyes grew distant, as if they could gaze back to the glory days of 1956, when Caerphilly defeated the Karasjok Kites in a momentous ...")_

"Rita Skeeter?"

The quill sputtered on the parchment as Rita turned to see who had interrupted her thoughts. "Yes?"

"Rita Skeeter. Don't you recognize me?"

With a long, polished fingernail she lowered her bejewelled spectacles to give the young man a good once over, top to bottom. Or bottom to top, more accurately, since his scuffed loafers were the first things that caught her eye. Atop these were rumpled corduroy trousers, Muggle-style, and a threadbare homemade jumper on which she could just make out the letter "H." His face, like the rest of his body, was painfully thin, though his shoulders were broad enough. She guessed he was around eighteen years of age, although round eyeglasses made him look much younger. Unruly black hair completed the look, as if he'd just rised from bed amidst a frightful hurricane. He wasn't someone who most people would look at twice—more like one they'd stumble over as he lay drunk on some unnamed street corner—but Rita, who never forgot a face, studied him carefully.

"I'm sorry, should I?"

"I'm Harry Potter!" His voice held barely contained agitation, and his fists clenched and unclenched as he stood there. "Don't you know me? I defeated Voldemort!"

"Who?" Rita squinted at the strange name, then shook her blond curls dismissively. "I'm sorry, Mr ... Potter, is it? I'm in the middle of an interview, so if you'll just ..." Her words trailed off with the flick of her hand. Rita knew the boy hadn't moved, but she turned back to her companion with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Daffid. You were saying ..."

A roar slowly grew, like the sound of a subway train emerging from a tunnel, bringing with it the splintering sound of liquor bottles exploding at the bar. Rita squealed as the Ogden's Old Firewhisky mirror shattered behind them, leaning into Daffid as he quickly covered her with his cloak. At any other time she'd be appreciating the athlete's finely toned body, but now all she could think of were the shards of glass raining down. She peered up just in time to see the bartender run over, wand drawn, forcing the young man to back toward the door. His protests rang throughout the empty pub:

"But I'm Harry Potter!!"


	2. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Memento mori**  
>  1\. remember that you must die. [Latin]  
> 2\. an object, as a skull, serving as a reminder of death or mortality._

"Harry Potter ... the Boy Who Lived." Voldemort's words were sweet as a whisper, soft as a breath. They spoke of a lover's disbelief at being loved, of the wonder that something so special could be given so freely. They drew Harry forward as gently as a caress, belying the madness of the battle that swirled around them, and of the Death Eaters closing in like hungry wolves sensing wounded prey. There was nothing but unblinking red eyes and those words that Harry had heard all his life. He recognised the sounds, he knew what they meant, but they didn't make sense. He couldn't reconcile it with the other words he'd heard from a dead man's lips:

 _"So the boy ... the boy must die ..."_

Truth be told, Snape's surprise had been greater than his. Harry had always known it would come to this final moment when he and Voldemort would stand face to face. For years he'd tried to deny it—for years he had struggled to _live_. But it made so much more sense this way. His fate was inextricably linked with this creature's—it had been since he was just a baby. And all this time, unknowingly, he had carried a small bit of the devil's soul inside.

In these last moments on earth, Harry had to wonder if that other's soul had always been apparent to the people around him. Was that why people called him a "powerful wizard," when what they really meant was that he had a penchant for the dark powers? Was that why Sirius had died, because in that parasitic part of himself Voldemort could plant anything he wanted Harry to see? Was that why Malfoy stared at him with those haunted eyes, drawn to the darkness that Harry hid inside him?

Red eyes blinked out the memory of grey and shook Harry from his musings. He would not waste these final moments thinking of Malfoy, of all people. He turned his mind to his friends, the ones still fighting for their lives in the castle, and the ones who had already given their lives that night. The ones who had given their lives over the years, with their own blood buying the time he needed to get to this point. This was what it had all been for.

"Come closer, Harry," crooned Voldemort, his high voice richer and more seductive than Harry remembered. "Come closer so I can see the boy who lived one last time."

As if enchanted, Harry moved toward his enemy. The ring of Death Eaters rose like a black curtain around him, but he hardly noticed. For the first time in his life he wasn't eyeing his escape. He'd come here for one purpose. _"The boy must die."_ But as he took his next step, his foot flew out from under him, sending him toppling to the forest floor. At first he wondered if a Jelly Legs curse had been cast, but he hadn't heard any spell uttered; besides that really didn't seem to be Voldemort's style. When he lifted his hand, dripping of blood and slime, he knew what had transpired: he had slipped on the spilt entrails of Nagini.

Harry's stomach turned as he looked at the snake's deadened scales, still glistening with gore. Her lifeless body stretched out of sight, past the column of Death Eaters. And though he couldn't see it, Harry knew that somewhere out there, crushed under her weight, was the body of Fred Weasley. The twins' spectacular offensive had caught Voldemort by surprise, leaving the snake open and vulnerable to their airborne attack. Swooping low enough to graze Nagini's skull, Fred was struck with a Killing Curse from an attendant Death Eater—but not before the sword of Godric Gryffindor had lodged between the snake's onyx eyes. She'd tried to fight off the attack, his twin had reported, his voice choked with tears, but the weight of Fred's body drove the sword straight and true. In the chaos George had escaped, bringing news that the last of the horcruxes had been destroyed.

The last, save one.

Harry did not stand, and he did not raise his wand. He had no doubt that, in that instant, he could defeat the Dark Lord. The killing curse had to be intentional, and here on his back, surrounded by viscera, bile rising in his throat, he could say the words and mean them. Death was all around him, the very air hung thick with blood and venom, and Harry's hatred felt just as thick. And if Harry Potter couldn't say it himself, then that part of himself that was Tom Riddle surely could …

But Harry kept his wand by his side. The boy must die, and so he would, leaving the final task to someone else. Ron and Hermione, he hoped it was, or Neville, who'd shown his quality by sustaining Dumbledore's Army. Or one of the few remaining members of the decimated Order. He told himself again that his sacrifice was worth it. He tried not to remember that he was just a seventeen-year-old boy who would never see the end of the war.

The clearing grew deathly quiet, the witnesses to his murder waiting anxiously. Harry waited too, never moving his eyes from that inhuman face. At last he saw a ripple across the creature's pale throat, watched the thin lips part and flicker just briefly with satisfaction. And then the world exploded around him.

 _AVADA KEDAVRA!_

As the green flame roiled toward him, Harry closed his eyes, fell to the ground, and died.

From far away came a low rumbling. Straining his ears to listen, Harry finally realised it was voices he heard, second by second growing clearer. He couldn't make out the individual words, though, nor could he tell who was speaking, so with great effort he cracked open an eye. The movement was almost painful; it seemed his eyelids had cemented themselves shut when he …

 _"When I died,"_ Harry remembered.

He forced open both eyes at that thought, fixing his sight on the dim outline of two people sitting not too far away. The images were blurred, the colours running like one of Monet's paintings, but as the top was half-carrot red, half-fawn brown, Harry had a good guess who they might be. "Ron?" he croaked, his vocal cords hesitant to cooperate. "'mione?"

"Harry!" Hermione squealed in happiness as they both flew to his bedside.

Ron gripped his shoulder tightly. "How're you feeling, mate?"

Harry smiled to find himself with his friends again. "I'm alive," he mused as he strained to sit up. "I thought for sure I was dead."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione sniffled, taking his hand. Harry squeezed it tightly. From the way Ron moved, Harry suspected the boy had slipped his arm over her shoulders. Suddenly he had a desperate need to see his friends more clearly.

"My glasses…"

Ron handed over Harry's glasses and his wand. "Not that you'll have much use for this yet," he shrugged, "but when you need it."

Harry slid on his spectacles and gave his friends a careful once-over. Both looked tired, dark half-moons under their eyes giving away their many nights standing sentry in the infirmary, and too thin, which wasn't surprising after months living rough. But they were still here, still alive. And that reminded him of the others who weren't. "Who …" But no, he wasn't ready for the names, not yet. Instead he asked, "How many … were lost?"

Hermione looked nervous, as if she didn't want to answer, but after a minute Ron said, "Fifty-four." His voice choked, and Harry remembered that Fred was among them.

"He was a hero, Ron. I couldn't have done it without him." Harry reached out and clasped his friend's wrist, but Ron just stared back, an odd expression on his face.

"Couldn't have done what?"

At that moment, his bedside curtain was whipped back and Madam Pomfrey bustled in. "I thought I heard voices." She smiled kindly at Harry. "And how is our patient this morning? Finally awake, I see."

But Harry's mind was stuck on Ron's words. Maybe he hadn't succeeded after all. He was still alive—he wasn't supposed to be alive. "Do you mean we didn't …"

But Madam Pomfrey chose that moment to grip his jaw, tilting his head to the right and the left. Finally she seemed satisfied. "There, it looks like you're all mended," she announced, patting his shoulder. "You're a very lucky boy, Mr Potter. The earthquake destroyed most of the forest, it was almost impossible to get you out."

She sounded distinctly delighted with their difficulties, but that wasn't why Harry shrank from her grasp. "Earthquake? What earthquake?" He turned to his friends in alarm. "He's dead, isn't he? Please tell me he's dead. Tell me somebody killed him …"

"Killed who, Harry?"

"Voldemort!" Harry practically lunged from his bed. This wasn't the time for joking around. He'd just sacrificed his life, or tried to anyway. "I was the last horcrux, I should have died, but I'm here … just tell me he's gone, okay?"

Hermione looked like she was going to cry, while Ron just looked uncomfortable. But Madam Pomfrey said soothingly, "Don't worry. Just temporary amnesia. It's quite common in cases like this. He'll right as rain by the weekend." He knew her smile was supposed to be reassuring, but at the moment it didn't bring him any comfort.

"I don't have amnesia!" Harry insisted. "I remember it all, Voldemort, the battle … he was supposed to kill me…"

"Old Mort who?" Ron asked.

"Voldemort!" Harry almost shouted. "He Who Must Not Be Named! The Dark Lord! The one whose soul we've been hunting down for the past year!"

Now Ron really looked confused and Hermione looked ready to burst into tears. Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips, then nodded briskly. "Right, let me get a potion to help you sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," Harry insisted. "I need to see the Headmaster!" Then he remembered that Snape was dead, had died and given up his secrets, had sent Harry to his death. But now Harry was alive, his friends didn't recognise Voldemort's name, and fifty-four people were gone in what they thought was an earthquake. Harry felt like he must not really be awake. This was a nightmare, that must be it. He hadn't woken up yet, not really.

But if he wasn't awake, how could he smell the thick musky odour of the sleeping draught that Madam Pomfrey was stirring? How could he feel Hermione's thumb against the back of his hand, rubbing hard enough to abrase his skin? How could Ron's hair look bright as Crabbe's Fiendfyre?

Harry couldn't answer these questions himself. He needed help. "Where's McGonagall?" he demanded. "I need to see Professor McGonagall."

"Now, Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey chided, "the Headmistress is far too busy to drop what she's doing and visit students. She sometimes stops by at dinnertime, you can see her then. Now, be a good boy and drink your potion."

And Harry knew then that something was terribly wrong, because in all his years at Hogwarts, the Headmaster had never been too busy to drop visit students in the infirmary. At least not when that student was him. But the thick purple brew the Healer handed him, flavoured with blackcurrent and holly, did its job well. Almost immediately Harry was tugged back into oblivion. The last thing he remembered, after feeling the glasses lifted gently from his face, was Hermione's hand clasped tightly in his.

Harry didn't wake up for dinner, and if Professor McGonagall stopped by to see him he wasn't aware of it. He slept straight through until morning, and would probably have kept right on sleeping if not for what sounded like thousands of glass vials tumbling from their shelves and shattering on the stone floor. Harry sat up with a start, instinctively reaching for his wand. Someone sitting by his bed jumped up too—it was Ron, he realised, recognising his friend's red mop.

"You clumsy girl! Just look what at you've done!"

Madam Pomfrey's admonishment from the other side of the curtain reassured him that they weren't under attack, and for just a second he imagined Tonks might come storming around the side, hair blazing in indignation. But then he remembered that Tonks was dead, and Remus, and so many others. _"Fifty-four"_ , Ron had said.

He'd also said _"earthquake"_ and _"who?"_ when asked about Voldemort, so Harry wasn't sure exactly what to think.

But as the boy approached him now, radiating with real joy to see his friend awake, Harry found that he wasn't all that bothered by all that. "Hey, Ron."

"About time you woke up," Ron teased. His hand brushed Harry's, which still gripped his wand tight. "You think maybe you should put your glasses on before you try using that?"

"Oh, yeah." Sheepishly Harry fished for the glasses at his bedside. The rims settled pertly on his nose, he grinned up at Ron. "So," he said slyly, "where's your better half?"

"My better half?" Ron asked, confused. "Oh, you mean Hermione?" He gave Harry a mock glare that slid into a resigned sigh. "She's in the library, of course. Where else would she be? She spends every waking minute studying for her N.E.W.T.s … or else hounding me because I'm not studying."

"Her N.E.W.T.s?" Harry exclaimed. "But surely she's not planning to sit them this year?"

Ron stared at Harry as if he'd just grown another head. "It's not like she has a choice, is it? Besides, she _wants_ to do them. She's looking _forward_ to them."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "But there's no way she can catch up! Not after missing all …" He stopped when an idea hit him. "Wait, she didn't get ahold of another time-turner, did she?"

Ron frowned, as if weighing the chances of that. Finally he shrugged. "If she did, she hasn't told me. Not that I'd want to sit through those classes again…"

"Or at all," Harry smirked.

"Too right, mate. No use worrying about it now, right? In a fortnight it'll all be over, and I'll be joining George in the shop, I reckon."

Harry's face fell at the mention—or rather the lack of mention of Fred—before Ron's words registered. He looked at his friend in confusion. "But … you're not planning to take them, are you?"

"The N.E.W.T.s?" Ron scowled. "I kind of have to, don't I? Mum would murder me if another Weasley dropped out without finishing school."

"But … you're not ready," Harry insisted. "You'll fail them for sure!" At Ron's hurt look, he quickly added, "Oh, I will too, I know. Surely there's someone we can talk to about getting them postponed, someone in the Ministry … maybe someone in the Order …"

Ron was staring at Harry now as if he not only had two heads, but both heads were wearing full clown makeup. "Get them … postponed?" He repeated the words slowly, like a different language. "You can't just get N.E.W.T.s postponed. Can you?"

Harry didn't miss the slight hopefulness of Ron's question, and hastened to reassure him. "I'm sure we can. After we explain about the horcruxes, that we missed classes because we were hunting them down, I'm sure they'll give us as much time as we need."

"What are you talking about, Harry? We didn't miss any classes. Well, except for a couple of Herbology classes after the quake flattened the greenhouses. I'm not sorry those nasty mandrakes are gone, but I actually felt sorry for Professor Sprout. But now Hagrid's built a new greenhouse and for the last week we've been …" Ron stopped abruptly. "Harry? Are you okay? You're looking a little funny."

Harry's throat was tight, so tight he didn't know if he could speak. He knew he wasn't dreaming now. He was awake as he'd ever been. He could feel everything, from the cool spring breeze streaming in the open window to the burled curve of his hawthorn wand. "You don't remember the horcruxes?" Harry finally choked out. At Ron's blank look he tried again, his voice more powerful this time. "You came back—you destroyed Slytherin's locket!"

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "Are you sure you're feeling okay, Harry? Maybe I should get Madam Pomfrey …"

Ron was backing away from the bed even as Harry called out, "No, Ron, wait." He held up his wand, certain that his friend couldn't mistake the light-brown wood for white holly. "Here, how do you explain this?"

The ginger-haired boy moved back closer, peering anxiously at the hawthorn stem, then back at Harry. "What?"

"Look at it!" Harry insisted, waving the wand in his friend's face.

"It's just your wand, Harry," Ron said in the aggravatingly steady tone one would use to calm a wild animal.

"But it's not," Harry insisted. "It's Malfoy's. Hermione broke mine when we were in Godric's Hollow."

"Malfoy?" Ron asked, seeming unsure about the name. "Do you mean Draco Malfoy? The prefect in Slytherin?"

Irritated, Harry said, "Yes, _that_ Malfoy."

"But why would you have Draco's wand?"

And now Harry knew the world was turned upside down, because there was no way Ron would ever have said Malfoy's name so charitably. "Are you telling me you don't remember what happened at Malfoy Manor? When Bellatrix Lestrange wanted to turn us over to Voldemort?" When there was no recognition, he added what he knew his friend could never forget. "You don't remember when she cruciated Hermione?"

Ron's face had been blank, but now his look of disgust was impossible to miss. "Merlin, Harry, what are you on about? That's a terrible thing to say! I just can't believe you'd …" Faltering, he backed away from the bed. "I'm calling Madam Pomfrey, I think she'll want to see you."

Before Harry could protest, Ron was gone, leaving Harry's mind spinning faster than the wings of a Golden Snitch. Ron didn't recall anything from the last year. There must be a spell that affects memory … but no, it wasn't just a year. He'd had no recognition of Voldemort either, of the Dark Wizard who Ron had feared since even before meeting Harry. And he'd called Malfoy "Draco" without even a sneer. This was more than a spell. It was as if … as if everything related to Voldemort had been excised from memory, leaving all else untouched. Was that even possible?

Before he could ponder this dilemma, Madam Pomfrey swept in. She examined Harry's eyes, his tongue, his ears, all the while keeping up a steady stream of chatter. "I told the children that patients mustn't be distressed, but will they listen? You need rest if you're going to recuperate. Rest and sleep, and maybe a little more chocolate." From her apron she drew a cocoa square and handed it to Harry. "Eat that, Mr Potter, and you'll feel better in no time."

Then the nurse turned to Ron, still lurking in the doorway. "Have you no classes, Mr Weasley? Perhaps you could be broadening your mind rather than upsetting my patients."

Ron flushed, still looking uneasy from his altercation with Harry. "Yes, ma'am. I'll see you, Harry."

"See you, Ron," Harry called, dismayed that his friend was leaving before they'd made up. But he didn't know what he could say. His thoughts were still spinning, knotting together tighter than the witch's wool in Mrs Weasley's knitting basket, and he didn't have a clue how to begin untangling them. He hardly noticed when Madam Pomfrey pushed him forward to fluff his pillows, then pressed him down into the soft hospital bed.

"Now, Mr Potter, you just lie back and relax. You needn't worry about a thing."

But Harry knew that wasn't true. There was plenty to worry about.

Professor McGonagall's visit that evening didn't cheer him any. She sat for fifteen minutes as he ate dinner, answering his questions with growing incredulity and impatience. After she left, whisking her stiff plum robes before her so forcefully that they snapped, Harry went over what she'd said:

(1) No one had ever heard of Voldemort, Death Eaters, or the Boy Who Lived.

(2) The previous Saturday, Hogwarts had been rocked by the worst earthquake ever seen in the highlands. It being Parents' Weekend, the school was full of adults, many of whom were killed as they tried to flee the destruction.

(3) Professor McGonagall had assumed the headmistress position after Snape perished in an inextinguishable fire on the seventh floor. (Dumbledore had died the previous year, of natural causes. He was over 150 years old after all, McGonagall reminded him, a respectable age for any wizard.)

(4) As far as anyone remembered, Harry had been at Hogwarts all year, as had Ron and Hermione. And he would most certainly be sitting his N.E.W.T.s with the rest of his class.

(5) Now it wasn't just Ron and Hermione who thought he was barmy.

Harry poked at the bangers and mash on his bed tray; his appetite had vanished so completely that even the custard tart looked unappealing. His head was a muddled mess and getting messier as he tried to make sense of such a ludicrous story. For one, Harry doubted an earthquake could do any damage to Hogwarts, charmed as it was. Even more worrisome was the denial of Voldemort. It was worse than after the Tri-Wizard Tournament, when the Ministry denied the Dark Lord had returned. At least then his friends were on his side. At least they'd believed him.

But what if they believed him now, Harry mused, and were just trying to protect him? It seemed a half-cocked way to go about it … but then, most of their previous efforts to protect him had been clumsy and heavy-handed. Maybe this was just some crazy plan that they'd cooked up to get him to move on with his life.

This explanation made a certain amount of sense. The last seven years of his life had been overshadowed by He Who Must Not Be Named; he'd never had a chance to do all the things a teenager was supposed to do. He wasn't even really sure what those things _were_ , but he had a pretty good idea that they involved lots of Quidditch and girls and maybe a few thoughts on what he wanted to be when he grew up. And maybe this was his friends' twisted way of giving him that life, now that Voldemort was dead.

Because he must be dead, mustn't he? Harry remembered seeing red eyes, the scent of blood and torn flesh, and the green flame of death hurtling towards him. If he survived, then surely the curse must have backfired, somehow, like it did before. And since the horcruxes were destroyed, then Voldemort was truly dead.

But the horcruxes weren't all destroyed. One that Ron and Hermione didn't even know about had remained, inside Harry.

Oh Merlin, could he have a piece of Voldemort still living inside him?

The thought made his stomach churn, threatening to bring up what little dinner he'd managed to swallow. It was at that moment that Madam Pomfrey appeared carrying a basket of clothes.

"Oh dear," she exclaimed, dropping her basket and rushing to Harry's side. "You look terrible!" Already her wand was out and she was waving it over his body, head to toe and back again. "I was just coming to say you can go back to your dorm. But maybe it's too soon?"

"I'm fine, really," Harry insisted, suddenly desperate to escape the sterile walls of the infirmary. "My stomach's just upset. I … I think dinner disagreed with me."

Madam Pomfrey assessed his half-eaten dinner with a critical eye. "Here, eat this." She pulled a square of chocolate from her apron. "It should settle your stomach." As he bit into the charmed sweet, she peered into Harry's eyes and waved her wand over his head a few more times. Finally she conceded, "Well, I suppose you can go. But I'm going to send a message to have your friends collect you. Here are your clothes," she continued pointing at the basket, "and your robe is on the peg. Get dressed, but wait here for them. I don't want you leaving alone."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry murmured.

He peeled his pyjamas off as soon as she left, pulling on the same jeans and cotton jumper he'd worn the week before. The house elves had done a thorough job of cleaning them; there wasn't even a trace of blood left on his white runners. His school robe had been Scourgified too. Harry sniffed it, sure the stench of death would still be clinging to its fibres, but he smelled nothing save the vaguely citrus freshening charm.

Unwilling to return to the bed where he'd spent the past week, Harry settled into one of the visitor's chairs. They were stiff and terribly uncomfortable, and he wondered just how long Ron and Hermione had spent there, watching as he slept. Fidgeting into a better position, he gasped when something sharp poked between his ribs. Harry fished into his deep pockets and found two broken sticks held together by a nearly translucent thread. He rubbed his thumb over the splintered holly, feeling every bit as empty as that night in Godric's Hollow.

Ruefully, Harry looked to the cabinet where his other wand—where _Malfoy's_ wand—lay. As if it'd been conjured by the thought of the other boy, he heard the Slytherin's haughty voice just on the other side of the curtain. "Here are your potions, Madam Pomfrey."

"And were you able to do up more sleeping draughts? Your last ones were excellent."

"Yes," Malfoy drawled, and Harry could almost see the prideful sneer on the boy's thin face. "And more Pepperup, too. And I've finally located Snape's powdered moonstone so I can finish the Draughts of Peace you wanted."

"That's wonderful, Draco. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Harry's felt like gagging again, but this time it had nothing to do with his dinner. His enemy was up to something, wheedling his way into the infirmary, getting on Madam Pomfrey's good side. This had to be part of some grand scheme to poison all of Gryffindor House or some equally malicious plot. Harry refused to even entertain the idea that Malfoy had changed his spots. He might have saved the boy's life not once but twice, but he had no doubt that this was the same old Malfoy.

Which is why he was so surprised by the next thing he heard.

"Millicent asked me to tell you she's sorry for breaking those potions yesterday." Harry had never heard before Malfoy use that tone before. He sounded almost … remorseful. "She feels terrible about not seeing the shelf floating there."

Shocked to hear his enemy speak up for anyone but himself, Harry peered through the curtain at the back of Malfoy's robes. A slight breeze made the fine fabric ripple like black ink up his back, like the black blood flowing from Nagini…

"Well, that's one of the dangers of having a mobile apothecary, I suppose," snapped Madam Pomfrey, shaking Harry from his memory. But then her voice softened. "If you'll tell the girl she must be more careful, she can come back. I can't really turn away volunteers, can I?"

Harry raised his eyebrow. Malfoy making potions, and now Slytherins volunteering in the infirmary? Without a doubt something was going on here. And Harry was going to find out just what it was.

As Draco turned to leave, Harry whipped open the curtain. "Malfoy," he said, a warning note in his voice.

The Slytherin stopped, looked at Harry as if he was surprised to see him there … and then, to Harry's amazement, half- _smiled_. "Potter, right? You've recovered, I see."

Harry eyes narrowed. Malfoy was definitely playing at something, acting like he didn't recognise him. "No thanks to you, I'm sure."

Harry's reply didn't have the intended reaction. Instead of flying at him, Malfoy looked taken aback, perhaps even a little … hurt. "What's that supposed to mean, Potter?"

At the last moment, Harry realised he shouldn't let on that he knew about the Slytherins' plan to poison his housemates. But Malfoy wouldn't try to protect him—he could get the truth of the battle out of him at least. If Voldemort was still alive, the boy wouldn't be able to keep from bragging. And if he was dead … well, after all these years, Harry knew his classmates' face would reveal any secrets he harboured. "Oh, just that I wouldn't even be here if not for you and your stupid Death Eaters. How's your family, by the way?"

Infuriatingly, the boy just stared at him through bored eyes and replied evenly, "Well enough, thanks. Why are you asking?"

Enraged by this acquiescence, Harry sputtered out, "So Lucius isn't in Azkaban where he belongs?"

Draco's eyes shot open wide and for a second horror banished his passivity, his features coming alive as surely as if he'd been struck. "Azkaban? Why ... what are you..." But suddenly blankness fell like a sheet before the boy's face. It happened so quickly, and so completely, that Harry couldn't tell if it was due to Malfoy's sense of control or, perhaps, some sort of Imperius spell. "Potter, I've hardly exchanged two words with you in all the time we've been at Hogwarts. I don't know why you feel the need to slander my father now, but I refuse to listen to this."

His boot heel clicked on the stone floor as he turned to go. In a last ditch effort to keep Malfoy talking, Harry blurted out, "Wait! I have something of yours!" That gave the Slytherin pause, and he even stepped forward past the curtain as Harry made his way to the bedside cabinet. Proudly the Gryffindor held up the wand, certain that the sight of the smooth hawthorn wood would jog memories. "I took it off you at the Manor. You were there for Easter break. Fenrir was there, and your Aunt Bellatrix, and she killed Dobby..." Harry gasped for breath, almost pleading, "You remember that, don't you?"

Malfoy reached into his pocket and drew out a long thin stick. It glistened, a rich chestnut red, as the boy rolled it between his fingers. " _This_ is my wand. This has _always_ been my wand. Father bought it for me on my eighth birthday. He didn't want me waiting until I was in school to start using magic." Finally this was the Malfoy Harry remembered, conceit dripping from his lips. "When I was younger, I was afraid its griffon feather meant I'd be sorted into Gryffindor." Harry drug his eyes from the gleaming wood to the boy's face, expecting to see a familiar sneer there. To his surprise, there was nothing. "But I wasn't," Malfoy continued in a painfully polite drawl, thick with affluence but none of the venom Harry'd come to expect. "And as I said, we've hardly ever spoken, so there's no reason a Gryffindor would have my wand. Now, if you'll excuse me, Potter, I've wasted enough time here." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "I do hope you return to normal soon."

Spinning on his heel, the Slytherin turned to leave, but his grand exit was ruined by Ron turning the corner. Their heads met with a crack and Malfoy fell onto the stiff chair; Ron remained standing, steadied by Hermione behind him, looking dazed.

"Draco? Are you okay?" Hermione asked, her concern shocking Harry even though she kept ahold of Ron's arm. "Do you need the nurse?"

Harry held his wand at the ready as he stared at Malfoy, expecting he'd need to curb the explosion of curses on all Weasleys past, present, and future. Instead, the blond boy stood with as much dignity as he could muster, smoothed his robes, and said through his clenched jaw, "I'm fine. Now, goodnight."

Harry's mouth dropped open and he couldn't even reply as Ron and Hermione bid the boy goodnight. He was still speechless when his friends surrounded him, not offering a single bad word against their mutual enemy. "It was an accident, I'm fine," Ron assured Hermione as she continued to fuss. It all felt too surreal for Harry, and he was quiet as they led him to Gryffindor Tower.

He had too much to think about and his head was a jumbled mess. The only thought that consoled him was that it was only a matter of time before Malfoy showed his true colours.


	3. Suo Jure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Suo jure**  
>  1\. in one's own right.  
> 2\. in one's rightful place._

The Gryffindor common room was almost exactly as Harry remembered. A blazing hearth fire banished the chill; radiating out from it were groups of students, some reading, others talking, some, like Ginny and Dean, engaging in mutual tonsillectomies. Lavender and Parvati laughed over the latest issue of _Teen Witch_ while Joshua Nickels and Jimmy Peakes, the Gryffindor beaters, mended their broomsticks. The room smelled of cinnamon and old shoes, a strangely comforting odour that Harry suddenly realised he'd missed. He followed Ron and Hermione to their usual spot left of the fireplace. Along the way he passed Orion Henricks and Seamus Finnegan, engaged in a fierce game of exploding snap. "Howya, Harry," Seamus ventured, then cursed as his card burst into flames.

"Hey, Seamus," Harry laughed, grinning at his classmate.

His smile faltered when he saw Dennis Creevey idly punching buttons on a CD player. Muggle electronics didn't work at Hogwarts, but Mr Creevey had never figured that out, and each holiday he loaded his sons down with devices that became _objets de arte_ in the common room. _"Colin should be here,"_ Harry thought. The boy should be looking up at him with that gormless grin that simultaneously annoyed Harry and made him feel like the king of the world. Now, remembering all the times he'd brushed him off, he felt low as a snake. _"Colin, if I could do it over again..."_

Dennis glanced up as if he'd overheard these thoughts, and Harry approached him. "I'm sorry …" he stammered, "about Colin, I mean."

The fourth-year boy looked up at him, his guileless face looking so much like Colin's that Harry wanted to cry. "Dad won't talk about it at all," he said quietly. "Is that normal?"

Panic raced through Harry; his legs wanted to flee, to carry him far away from Dennis and his family's sorrow. Facing a forest full of Death Eaters had never been this hard. But Harry knew he had to stand his ground. Colin wasn't supposed to have been there, he _wouldn't_ have been there, if he hadn't thought Harry was a hero.

Not feeling like a hero at the moment, Harry kneeled beside Dennis' chair. "I don't think there's anything normal about any of this," he confessed, picking at the loose threads in the upholstery to avoid looking at Dennis. "It's not fair that he died just because he wanted to be there … here, I mean," Harry caught himself, "here at Hogwarts. And when things aren't fair, they can take a long time to get used to. But … I don't guess there's any right or wrong way to be. Just let your dad have some time…" Harry swallowed hard. He was hardly the one to give advice on grieving. It seemed only yesterday that Sirius had died, and not a day went by that he didn't long to talk to his godfather. Time didn't heal wounds, not really. It just made them bleed a little more slowly.

Dennis stared intently at Harry's fingers laced in the frayed golden threads. Finally he looked up with an almost embarrassed expression. Harry smiled gently. "Colin was a good wizard, you know. And he was a good friend to me. I'm going to miss him."

"I am, too," Dennis murmured.

His voice sounded so small and scared. Without really thinking about it, Harry wrapped his arms around the small boy. "He was proud of you, Dennis," Harry said against the boy's head. "And I'm sure he'll be keeping an eye on you, wherever he is now." He felt the other boy nodding against his shoulder, heard the sniffle he tried to hide. Harry was never at ease comforting people—hugging was much more Hermione's style—but he couldn't move away from Dennis. He waited until the snuffles stopped, until his thin arms loosened from Harry's back, and only then did Harry pull away.

"Thanks, Harry," whispered Dennis.

Harry nodded and patted the boy's shoulder before standing up. When he joined his friends by the fire, he realised he hadn't felt like such a hero for a long, long time.

It was after midnight when Harry made his way to the dormitory, leaving Ron and Hermione staring at each other with moony eyes. After a week in bed he doubted he'd be able to sleep at all, but it felt like his head no sooner touched the pillow than he was shaken awake by Ron and rushed down to breakfast. He didn't feel rested at all. He blamed it on those sleeping draughts that Malfoy had made.

As he entered the dining hall, Harry let Ron go ahead, taking a moment to survey the room. Still full, it felt more empty than it should. The Ravenclaw table seemed especially sparse; Harry spotted Luna Lovegood's shaggy blond locks and wondered if even she would think him crazy if he asked who'd fallen from her House. The Slytherins were all there, of course, with Malfoy in the centre lording it over all of them. Harry scowled as he remembered last night. He'd tried to tell his friends about the plot to poison the school, but they'd given him that dubious look he was beginning to know far too well, then assured him that a prefect would never do anything to harm Hogwarts students.

 _"Well,"_ Harry reminded himself, _"it's certainly not the last time you've had to go it alone. Just wait, they'll see."_

He picked his way carefully through the hall, keeping his eyes down so he wouldn't have to look at the head table. He didn't think he was ready to see that Snape wasn't there. Harry still hadn't come to terms with all he'd heard that night. Years of distrust were hard to release, but his suspicions had done the man a grave disservice. And to imagine his Potions professor in love with his mother…

"Harry, mate, going to stand there all day?" Ron elbowed him in the hip even as he shovelled a mountain of bacon onto his plate.

Neville scooted over to make more room for Harry. When he sat, his gaze returned to the Slytherin table. It wasn't his enemy that caught his attention this time, it was the boy sitting to his left. Goyle was pale and stared at his food with a forlorn expression. Dark rings under his eyes gave away sleepless nights, which Harry figured made sense; no way would Goyle be stupid enough to touch Malfoy's deadly sleeping potions. Then again, Malfoy was no potions master. The draught might have gone wrong, or Goyle might have eaten something he shouldn't have—that was highly likely. Or what if the boy was simply one of Malfoy's guinea pigs?

"What're you looking at?" Ron asked, reaching over Harry plate for the jam.

"Don't you think Goyle looks ill?" Harry said. This might be just the proof he needed of Malfoy's plot. "You don't think he might've been poisoned, do you?"

Hermione twisted to look over her shoulder and then turned back, her forehead wrinkled. "He just lost his best friend, Harry."

Harry had actually forgotten Crabbe. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to feel the same sympathy for Goyle that he'd shown to Dennis. It was Crabbe's own fault, creating the Fiendfyre that he couldn't control. But then the boy had never been the brightest bulb. It was probably just as well that he wouldn't be able to use that maliciousness any more. There was enough of it still sitting at that table. Narrowing his eyes at them en masse, Harry pronounced, "All the Slytherins ran away."

"Everyone ran away," Hermione said harshly. He started to protest, but when Ron cast him a warning look, he bit it back. His best friends didn't even remember the past six months they'd spent together. And last night with Neville and the other Gryffindors had convinced him that no one else did, either. Hogwarts' earthquake had been a terrible tragedy, but nothing concocted from the evil mind of the darkest of wizards.

"So Seamus is starting a pool for the match on Friday," Ron said to crack the building tension. "I've got twelve Sickles left over from Hogsmeade, I'm putting it all on Ravenclaw."

"Yeah?" piped in Dean. "I need to get in on that. I caught the Slytherins' practice last week—they're looking strong.

"You wouldn't bet against Ravenclaw!" exclaimed Harry.

Dean shrugged one shoulder, the one not draped across Ginny's back. "If Gryffindor's not in the Cup, I'm not too bothered by who wins, really."

"You really should've been playing this year, Harry," said Ginny.

Harry should have consoled the girl, who he knew felt guilty for Gryffindor's poor Quidditch record, but his mind was miles away … or at the next table, at least. He'd looked over to glare at the team, but been caught short by the sight of Malfoy and Millicent Bulstrode leaning close and whispering. When the boy said something that made her giggle, Millicent tossed her black hair over her shoulder. Harry started in shock: the girl was flirting with Malfoy!

It was at this point that his enemy should have turned to Harry with a spiteful sneer, but he didn't. Instead, he reached for his coffee, grinned at Zabini, and leaned in to whisper something to his last remaining henchman. To Harry's amazement, Goyle's face brightened and he said something that made Malfoy laugh heartily. It was a look Harry had never seen on Malfoy … and it made his chest suddenly tighten, as if it wasn't big enough to hold his lungs.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice shook him from what he was sure were the early signs of a heart attack. Uncle Vernon had complained of them often enough; now he wished he'd paid more attention. "You need to eat. You're never going to get your strength back if you don't eat."

"Maybe you should stop by Madam Pomfrey's for some Pepperup," Dean suggested with a wink at Ginny. "It'll really get you going…"

"We don't need to hear what's got you going, Thomas," Ron interrupted, covering his ears as his sister giggled. "Keep that to yourself, thanks very much."

There was no way that Harry was going to touch any Pepperup potion, but he decided that, for now, he'd keep his reasons to himself too.

"Harry," Hermione had said as they left breakfast that first Monday, after he'd finally choked down some porridge and pumpkin juice under her watchful eye, "I know this week's set you back, so I've put together a study schedule. I thought that after Astronomy we could go over it."

Harry agreed at the time, but a few days later, looking over the meticulous grid entirely filled with Hermione's neat handwriting in different colours of ink, he was having second thoughts for at least the hundredth time.

"There's no way I can do this!"

Ron grinned, but wiped the smile away as Hermione frowned from across the table. "Of course you can, Harry," she reassured him with well-practiced ease. "You've only got two more hours of Herbology this afternoon, and then three hours of Charms. After dinner we really should try to do some Transfiguration exercises … Ron needs help with that too …"

Hermione's voice faded to a soft drone as Harry stared at the schedule. He wasn't sure he would have passed all his N.E.W.T.s. even with a full year to study. With just ten days the situation was hopeless. And after just a few days of intensive study, his head felt like it was going to explode.

And the worst of it was that no one believed why he was so far behind.

Each night he tried to make his friends remember, talking about the Basilisk and the locket that Kreacher had squirreled away or Death Eaters like Quirrell and the polyjuiced Barty Crouch Junior. He'd shown them the lines carved into his hand, hazy words scabbed, scarred, and paled, but they'd just said that of course everyone knew Miss Umbridge was evil; wasn't that why the Hogwarts Board had dismissed her? At times there seemed to be some vague remembrance. Ron recalled a dream about an enchanted version of wizard's chess and Hermione admitted that lately she'd had a strange urge to go camping. But whenever Voldemort came into the picture, it was as if their minds had been wiped. The night of the Quidditch World Cup, for instance, passed quietly enough … or as quietly as could be expected with the all-night celebrations of the victorious Irish team.

As awful as it felt to have Hermione and Ron doubt him, it almost felt worse to have forgotten all the good things that they remembered. Instead of battles with You Know Who darkening their days, their biggest worries had been grades and the outcome of the House Cup. And finding dates to the Yule Balls, which sounded every bit as terrifying as it was in Harry's memory.

"Don't you remember?" Ron had quizzed him the previous night. "Ginny was furious because you hadn't asked her." Harry tried to imagine enduring the redhead's wrath and realised that the Christmas week he'd spent with Ron and Hermione was quite peaceable by comparison. "That's when she finally gave in and went with Dean. And _now_ look at them." He rolled his eyes at his sister, who sat perched on the chaser's knee.

But Harry didn't remember any of it. He felt like he'd been living in a different world. And the routine at Hogwarts, when so much had changed, was driving him mental. His time in the library was spent staring at textbooks that might as well have been Greek for as much as he got out of them. He couldn't even remember which subject he was supposed to be studying until he flipped over the book before him. _Hortus Magicus_. Herbology, then. Yes, the sketches of plants probably should have given that away.

 _Like the non-magical_ Papaver somniferum _(opium poppy),_ Papaver moriferum _induces a dreamlike and sometimes paranoid sensations. Unlike its stationary relation, however,_ Papaver moriferum _stalks its prey and leaves victims in a moribund state that may prove fatal without the antidote (see Wake Robin). Once treated, they often report disorientation and a lingering chill as the opiate filters through the nervous system..._

Harry shuddered, slamming the book shut. Disoriented he might be, but if he'd been attacked by a walking, stalking poppy, it certainly hadn't left him with any sense of well-being. "Do you know anything about how memory charms work?" he asked suddenly.

"Mhmm," Hermione murmured without looking up from her book. "And you'd better too or Flitwick won't be happy."

"No, I don't mean how to _do_ them," Harry said. "I mean, how do they really _work_?"

Hermione paused as if she was about to push him back towards his Herbology book, but at the last second her curiosity took hold. "Do you mean like Obliviate?"

"Yeah. I mean, does it remove a person's memory completely? Is it like … like taking out part of their brain?"

Hermione shook her head vigorously. "There's no surgery involved, obviously. It just …" She smiled bashfully, surprising Harry. "Actually, I've been thinking a lot about this lately. I think it's more that the charm conceals the memory in a way that makes the person forget they have it." When Harry frowned, she continued, "Think of it like in the Autumn, when you pack away your summer clothes. Your clothes are still there, but they're put away where you don't think about them, at least not until you unpack them the next year. Just like Obliviated thoughts stay in a person's head, just confounded, until the charm is reversed."

Harry nodded. He didn't mention that he'd never had so many clothes that he had any to put away, but he thought he understood the principle. Which meant that if this was a charm, his friends' memories were still there. He just had to figure out how to crack through the spell.

"Oh, Harry," exclaimed Hermione, "it's got to be a memory charm! Madam Pomfrey thought so herself—nothing else makes sense. But she tried to reverse all the ones she knows about. I've been re-reading _Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes_ to see if she missed any, but there are just so many ... and those are just the older ones. I'd love to get hold of Mnemone Radford's notes, but most of them are still classified …"

 _She was talking about him!_ Harry realised with a start. Nobody was even considering that they'd fallen victim to some Dark Magic. No, they thought _he_ had his memory erased … _he_ who'd been subjected to all sorts of mind-scrambling spell reversals while he slept in what was supposed to be the safety of the infirmary.

But nowhere was safe now, even without the spectre of Voldemort haunting the wizarding world. The infirmary was overrun with Slytherins and even his friends conspired to muddle his brain. Frustrated and angry, he stood, his hands balled into fists. "Maybe I'm not the one who's been confounded!" he exclaimed. "Why doesn't anyone question what really happened? Or is it just so easy to believe I'm crazy?

"Harry," protested Ron, leaping to Hermione's defence, "don't get so mad. Nobody thinks you're crazy. We just think you got hit by something accidentally … maybe something for a Muggle who got lost on the grounds…"

"Oh, is that what _we_ think?" Harry indignantly hissed. "That some Muggle _accidentally_ stumbled into a castle that's been hidden for centuries, and that I _accidentally_ got in the way? Maybe the Harry you know would be so stupid, but I'm not."

Ron glared while Hermione wore the almost tearful expression he saw so often these days. But Harry didn't care. He would have gladly gone on, had not Madam Pince rounded the stacks, her pinched face blazing with anger. "Mr. Potter, I will not have you making such a ruckus! This is a library!"

"I was just leaving," Harry grumbled, shouldering his backpack. After a last glare at his two classmates, he stormed through the heavy door and out into the hall.

At the top of the staircase he paused. He hadn't thought about where to go, once free. He just wanted to go away, far from the people who didn't believe him and the world he didn't know. But his mind was made up when he saw a pale blond boy on the floor below, hurrying toward the hospital wing carrying a small wooden chest. Malfoy, up to no good, surely, and this time Harry might catch him in the act.

For once the stairways cooperated and he made good time to the infirmary. The Slytherin had a head start, though, and by the time Harry arrived, Malfoy had disappeared deeper into the ward. Harry crept quietly past the beds, most empty, but a few screened off to give their inhabitants some privacy. He hoped he wouldn't need to peer into the individual beds, but as each step took him closer to Madam Pomfrey's office, just out of sight behind the last curtain, he suspected he might.

But as Harry boy neared the end of the row of beds, he drew up short. Madam Pomfrey's office was dark but her door was open! The witch never left the infirmary without locking it, for that was where all the school's potions and enchanted chocolates were kept. Tiptoeing a tiny bit closer, Harry drew his wand and stared intently into the darkness. Suddenly a shadow moved inside and he saw the glimmer of sleek blond hair. Malfoy had broken into the nurse's office! And with a whisper of "Alohomora," Harry heard the faint tumble of the lock that meant his enemy had managed to break into the apothecary cabinet, too.

A shadow slid off the crystal doors as Draco opened the cabinet, but in the darkness Harry couldn't see what he was doing. He fervently wished for his invisibility cloak. But the Slytherin must've been just as blind, for a second later a faint light shone from the tip of his wand. Malfoy's skin looked almost translucent, floating there in the darkness as he examined the shelves. He seemed unable to find what he searched for—several times he took down a large bottle, unstopped it and took a quick whiff, only to replace it on the shelf. But after a few such attempts, he seemed to find the correct vial. His luminescent wand floating beside him, Malfoy carefully measured its contents into another smaller container before replacing the large bottle on the shelf.

Then the Slytherin did something even stranger. He started taking vials from the chest he'd carried in and filling the crystal shelf. It was the poisons he'd concocted, Harry realised, and Madam Pomfrey would dole them out without a second thought to the next sick student. What if it was Ron or Hermione who drank the death draught? Or Ginny or Dean or poor Dennis Creevey. Harry had to do something.

The infirmary's double-doors slammed shut suddenly. Inside Madam Pomfrey's office, despite the wand's dim light, Harry clearly saw Malfoy's face. It looked panicked, blanched even paler than before. Then the light blinked out, leaving the room in darkness. The cabinet tinkled as it was shut and then Malfoy appeared, shifty and distrustful, in the doorway. He looked ready to make a run for it, but his wand was still drawn …

 _"Madam Pomfrey,"_ Harry realised. _"He'll spell her to keep her from catching him."_ In desperation, he did the only thing he could think of.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Malfoy went stiff and toppled, with a thud, to the stone floor. His wand, which had been pointed at the door lock, was now standing straight up.

"Mr. Potter!"

Harry whirled around to see the nurse's face, red with anger. He had no idea that Poppy Pomfrey could ever look so imposing, but as she bore down on him with fiendish fury he knew even Voldemort could have learned a few tricks.

"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing? Attacking a student in my hospital?"

"I can explain..." Harry started, but she cut him off with a wave of her short wand.

"Tell the Headmistress to come right away," she instructed the painting by her office; the child sleeping in the painted bed tumbled out and skipped out of the frame. "You'll explain all right, but it can wait." Madam Pomfrey knelt down by the frozen boy and waved her wand carefully over his limbs. "You're very lucky that nothing was broken," she admonished. "Students should not even _know_ the binding spells! Whatever were you thinking?" She didn't wait for an answer as she cradled Malfoy's head. "Ennervate."

Malfoy squeezed his eyes tight together before opening them, looking with surprise at Madam Pomfrey and then moving his gaze to Harry. "You..." he started, but faded into a groan as the nurse helped him to sit. "I'm awfully sore," he complained. "Did you check that I'm not injured … my arm…"

"You're fine," the Healer assured him. "And in just a minute the Headmistress will be here and we can find out why Mr. Potter felt the need to curse you. Would you like a chair?"

Her solicitous tone angered Harry. "I was trying to save you," he cried out.

"Save her from what," Malfoy scowled. "As far as I can tell, you're the only one who's a danger to anyone." He settled into the chair that the nurse levitated over, readjusting himself gingerly as if every tiny motion caused him excruciating pain.

Professor McGonagall came up behind Harry. "What appears to be the trouble here, Madam Pomfrey?" Despite her stern countenance, Harry was happy to see her. Now, with the potions deposited in the apothecary, he could prove Malfoy's maliciousness.

"I was just returning to my office when Mr. Potter here stunned Mr. Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey replied. "I have no better idea of why than you do."

"Nor do I," chimed in the Slytherin.

"Well, Mr. Potter, would you like to try to explain yourself?"

"I saw Malfoy break into Madam Pomfrey's office," he explained. "He was putting poisons on the shelf. And then she startled him, and he was going to run away only she was too close, so he had his wand out and he was going to do something terrible to her..." Harry's words came out in a rush. He knew Malfoy was glaring, but Madam Pomfrey and the Head of his House both looked shocked. "Before he could curse her, I cast a Body-Bind to stop him."

His story appeared to have rendered Professor McGonagall speechless. He hoped beyond hope that she was debating how many points to take from the Slytherin boy. After a long second had passed, however, she turned away from Harry. "Well, Mr. Malfoy, what have you to say to that?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Harry, their weird absence of colour making them almost disappear into slits. _"Just like a snake's,"_ Harry thought. Then Draco said, in a much haughtier voice than he should have after being caught red-handed, "It's true, I was in Madam Pomfrey's office." He turned to the nurse. "I brought up another batch of Blood-Replenishing Potion, I knew you were running low. When you weren't here, I thought I'd surprise you by filling the apothecary."

"Oh, you dear boy," gushed the witch. "That was so thoughtful of you. Mind, you shouldn't have broken into my office..."

"I won't do it again," purred Malfoy.

"But it's poison!" Harry cried out. "At least check it."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but McGonagall nodded at the nurse. Madam Pomfrey took one of the new vials from her office. She waved her wand over it, then opened the stopper and sniffed it. "No poison, Mr. Potter. It's only potion, and very fresh." She smiled at the blond boy. "Very nicely done, Draco."

"But that can't be," Harry insisted.

"Perhaps it'd be poison if you made it, Potter," Malfoy drawled, "but my potions are of the highest quality."

McGonagall drew her lips into a thin line. "So you decided to petrify a student because he was refilling the empty apothecary?"

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. There had to be something else, Malfoy wouldn't act so sneakily if he was just delivering potions. But he wasn't just delivering, he was doing something else ...

"Check his pockets!" he demanded.

A look of fear ripped across Draco's face before his cold mask descended again. "You'll do no such thing," he said scornfully.

"He was taking something, too. He wasn't just filling the cabinet ... he took something out."

Malfoy gave him such a look of pure hatred that Harry knew he was on to something. This must be what he was doing. After all, he'd filled the vial first. Refilling the potion was just a ruse in case he got caught. "Check his pockets," he repeated eagerly.

"You have no right to search me," insisted Malfoy. "The word of that Gryffindor is no cause for you to violate my rights. He petrified me—I'm the victim here, you know."

"Mr. Malfoy, I have no desire to violate your rights," the Headmistress said. "But if you took something from the apothecary, I need you to tell us what it was. It will save Madam Pomfrey the trouble of trying to determine what's missing."

"It was in a big vial," Harry offered. "He poured it into a smaller container."

"Mr. Potter, I'll thank you to be quiet; you've done quite enough tonight," McGonagall reproached him. Harry wanted to protest, but when he looked at Madam Pomfrey he knew that he really might have said enough. From his description of the vial, she seemed to have teased out what Malfoy had taken.

"Draco, it wasn't..."

The pale boy looked up at her contritely and nodded once. "I know you said it's dangerous to use unsupervised, but Greg needs it. He's not getting better. I was going to supervise him..."

Madam Pomfrey looked like she was torn between reprimanding Malfoy and hugging him. She settled on turning to Professor McGonagall. "It's Dr. Ubbly's Oblivious Unction. Draco asked for some last week, but I told him no. He'll give it back now," she added, turning to the boy. "Won't you?" With a scowl, Malfoy nodded and pressed the vial into her hand.

"So now we have you to deal with, Mr. Potter," commanded McGonagall. "Detention in my office, I think, through dinnertime. I'll have some sandwiches brought up, but I believe you need some time alone to think about what you've done here." She waved her wand. "Your lines are waiting on the chalkboard."

"But..." Her stern look stilled his tongue. "Yes, ma'am."

Harry spared one last look at Malfoy, who graced him with a triumphant stare. He'd managed to slither out of this one, just like the underhanded snake he was, but Harry was on to him now. And this battle was far from over.

It was late by the time McGonagall finally released him from detention, ten parchments covered with _"Petrificus is only to be used on my enemies, never on my classmates"_ in a neat stack on her desk. Harry stumbled into Gryffindor Tower massaging his hand, his earlier fight with Hermione and Ron all but forgotten.

But they hadn't forgotten, apparently.

Hermione looked up as soon as he came through the door but, remembering that she was still angry, immediately dropped her head back down into her book. Ron just stared with a glum expression. When Harry sat down beside them, neither of them greeted him.

But Harry was so weary that he couldn't find the will to fight anymore. They were still his friends, even if they didn't believe him.

"I'm sorry. I know I've been acting weird lately. Things just haven't been right since the ... since the earthquake." He grimaced even having to say that, but writing his lines had given him plenty of time to realise what was important. Malfoy was still his enemy, more so now than ever. He thought of the boy's colourless eyes, that vacant look tinted with hate, his voice dripping with pretension and deceit, and that smile—not the smile he'd seen Malfoy bestow upon his friends at the breakfast table, but the victorious one he'd flashed at Harry as he left the hospital. The Slytherin was definitely up to something—and if Harry was going to stop him, he needed his friends.

Hermione beamed at him so happily that he knew his apology was accepted. "Oh, Harry, we're just worried about you, you know."

Ron reached over and clasped her hand, and Harry gave them both a genuine smile. "I know, and I know you're just trying to help me. I just … there's been a lot on my mind lately."

Ron nodded. "It's all right. We're all suffering these days. Our brains weren't made to take this much reading." At Hermione's arched eyebrow he amended, "Okay, maybe yours is, but not mine."

"I feel so far behind!" moaned Hermione. "It seems I've forgotten more magic than I learned this year."

Harry was about to say that this was because she had, that traipsing through the back country of Britain wasn't as conducive to learning as reading in the Hogwarts library. But then he caught himself. "I'm sure that's not true. Aren't you the brightest witch of our age?"

Hermione blushed, but Ron chimed in, "She sure is. And…" he added, pulling a wad of tissues from his bag, "she was bright enough to save you this from dinner."

Harry unwrapped the parcel and out fell a handful of chocolate biscuits. "Brilliant, Hermione." As the sweet chocolate coated his tongue, the taste of hope filled his senses. His friends were still his friends, Malfoy was still his enemy, and at least one small corner of the world was as it should be.


	4. Ægri Somnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Ægri Somnia**  
>  A troubled man's dreams_

_The Forbidden Forest was deathly quiet. Not a creature stirred on this black night; even Harry's footsteps were muffled in the humus. Harry wanted to stop—he didn't want to see what lay in the clearing ahead—but still he shuffled steadily forward. It was too quiet, preternaturally quiet, as if the very forest was holding its breath, and with every step his dread grew. Too soon he reached the edge of the trees. The shining crescent above cast a pale light on the clearing, empty now. This wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be alone. Not here._

 _"You're not alone."_

 _The voice came from nowhere, sending a sudden chill racing up Harry's spine. He spun around to see the silver-haired boy who seemed to be floating behind him. His black school robes swallowed the night, his pale face even more ghostlike in the moon's faint glow._

 _Harry glared at his enemy. "Piss off, Malfoy."_

 _A faint smile teased up the corner of the boy's lips and then disappeared. "Suit yourself, Potter. But he's coming back." Malfoy turned back towards the forest. Just before the velvety darkness swallowed him up, he paused and said, "And you've forgotten something."_

 _"I didn't forget," Harry retorted into the black. "Everyone else forgot, but I didn't. I remember this, I remember dying, I remember him..."_

 _As if beckoned, the winds picked up, a rustle that began in the highest branches and whisked down, whipping through Harry's hair. Shadows swirled into substance, darkness become somehow darker, denser, and the night's quiet stillness was ripped apart by the torrential howl streaming from the heart of that mass. Harry was no longer alone. Moving in a line as solid as the trees were masked figures bearing down on him, edging him closer to the centre of the clearing, to the centre of the darkness. Panicked, Harry drew his wand, but it fell, flaccid, its tip hanging by a slender thread. He heard an evil cackle, Bellatrix Lestrange's laughter as she murdered Sirius, and then the darkness had a voice._

 _"Harry Potter," it said, and then the darkness had a voice and red, red eyes. "The boy who lived..."_

 _And then the voice and the red, red eyes and a shimmering green flame filled his senses, and Harry screamed..._

 _"Harry, wake up!"_

 _Harry opened his eyes, still clutching his forehead, to see his friend's face just inches away. "Oh, thank Merlin. You were screaming to wake the dead."_

 _"Sorry," Harry mumbled, propping himself up on his elbows. "Just another bloody nightmare." He cast a groggy glance around the room. No red eyes, no green flame, just lumps of boys in their beds. "What time is it?"_

 _"Just gone half three," Ron said. "You okay, mate? You don't ..." He paused and then continued reluctantly, "you don't want to … talk about it, do you?"_

 _Harry smirked. "You've been spending too much time with Hermione." His friend snorted softly, not denying it. "No, it was just that same old dream, Voldemort and his Death Eaters..." Harry stopped when Ron stiffened at the name. Seemed he hadn't woken from his real nightmare, the waking one that had marred every day since he'd left the infirmary. "Anyway," Harry said wearily, "I'm sorry I'm always waking you with my nightmares. It seems like they should be gone now, at least."_

 _"What do you mean, Harry? You've never had nightmares before."_

 _Harry couldn't say anything without choking. He wished he could remember this life that wasn't plagued with bad dreams and dark wizards. And he wished he didn't feel so alone._

 __"You're not alone."_ _

The phrase triggered his memory, and for an instant he thought he could grasp the fading fragments of his dream. But then, as dreams do, they slipped away. When Ron's yawn drug him back to the present, Harry kicked off his bedcovers. "It's nothing. Listen, I don't think I can sleep now. I'm going for a walk to clear my head."

"Want me to come with?" Ron asked through another sleepy yawn.

"No, I'm fine, I'll take my cloak. You go back to bed."

"Alright," his friend replied, already half-asleep. He was already softly snoring by the time Harry had slipped a robe over his pyjamas.

Silently, Harry tiptoed across the room and out the door. The tower was chilly, the fire nothing but embers, and shivering he draped his cloak around his shoulders. It didn't actually add much warmth, but Harry felt comforted just wearing it. It reminded him of all those times when he'd snuck out with Ron and Hermione, the three of them undivided as they worked to foil Voldemort's plans.

The pain of being alone gnawed at him again. He'd tried to stop mentioning Voldemort, giving a whole new spin to "He Who Must Not Be Named." It wasn't that he'd given up trying to convince his friends, but it just made them uncomfortable and until he had some proof to change their minds, it would be a futile exercise. He just didn't know what that proof could be. And with each passing day, he was giving up hope that the world would wake up and be set to rights.

Harry needed to talk to someone who understood. Sirius would, he was sure, or even Dumbledore. The thought of his late Headmaster pulled Harry in the direction of Dumbledore's office, but then he remembered that McGonagall was there now. In the past weeks she'd given no indication that she had any more patience for his story than she had when he was in the hospital. So he forced his feet to turn left instead of right and was soon climbing the steep staircase of the Astronomy Tower.

By the time he reached the top, he was out of breath and so warm that he shrugged out of his cloak. Gasping for the fresh air awaiting him on the ramparts, he pushed open the door—and drew himself up short when he saw he wasn't the only one here.

"Malfoy! What the hell are you doing here?"

In his dream, the blond boy had appeared from nowhere in black robes floating on the dark night. Now he was a solid form on the battlements, his thin frame squeezed between a gap in the stones. Despite the cool evening he wore a short sleeved black shirt, dark slacks, and the wizarding world's attempt at runners—they almost could have passed for Muggle clothes, much to Harry's surprise. The thought of casual wear and Malfoy just didn't go together.

But Malfoy and his scorn-filled voice did. "I could ask you the same thing, you know."

"But I asked you first," Harry replied defiantly.

Malfoy paused, as if weighing whether to answer or challenge Harry further. At last he spoke. "This is my place." He leaned against the stone, the possessive press of his shoulder supporting his claim. "I come here to think. Alone," he added pointedly.

"Think? About what?" For an instant, Harry felt a glimmer of hope. Malfoy might remember challenging Dumbledore, or the mercy the Headmaster offered even while at the end of the Slytherin's wand.

But instead of talking about the past, Harry was surprised when Draco answered, "My future."

"Well, that should be pretty easy," Harry scoffed, silently adding, _"Join the Death Eaters, kill Muggles, the normal career for the Malfoy heir."_

But Draco gave a little snort. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

His voice carried such a sharp edge that Harry couldn't stifle his curiosity. "Seriously, you're a Malfoy. What've you got to worry about?"

"You don't get it, do you?" said Draco scornfully. "Hogwarts has been the best thing that ever happened to me. It's been like a holiday. Now I'll have to be a proper son. Get a boring Ministry job like my father wants and start producing grandchildren for Mother."

Harry grimaced at the thought of a pack of tiny, sneering children, but he wasn't particularly surprised by the thought of Malfoy in the Ministry. He could imagine his enemy's zeal as he enforced regulations against half-blood wizards, gleefully stripping them of their powers and even their lives. Yet Draco looked so forlorn that still he had to ask, "What do you want to do instead?"

"Potions," Malfoy replied without hesitation. He smirked at Harry. "Believe it or not, I'm good at it. Snape said I could be a potions master if I put my mind to it."

"I believe it. I believe you could make anything you wanted." _"Even poison,"_ Harry almost added, but stopped when he saw a pained expression flitter across Malfoy's face at the mention of their departed potions teacher. Harry's feelings about the man were still conflicted. Granted, he had judged him ill, but the man had made his life a living hell for years. That was hard to forget. But to Draco, Snape had been a mentor. And even if Harry had hated the man, and still hated Malfoy, he knew the loss must sting. Without realising it, his voice softened. "Why don't you just tell your father what you want to do?"

"It's not that easy," Draco snorted, but try as he might Harry couldn't detect any malice in it. "Snape promised to talk to him at graduation, and offer to let me continue at Hogwarts as an apprentice. Now …" His voice trailed off. Harry waited, wondering whether he could bring himself to offer some comfort to his sworn enemy, but he was glad he hadn't when Malfoy snapped, "So why are you here, Potter?"

Struck by Malfoy's honesty, Harry confessed. "I couldn't sleep. Nightmares." He hated the words as soon as they left his mouth. Now he was due for all sorts of mockery from the other boy.

But he didn't expect Malfoy to ask, "Are they bad?"

"Yeah, they're pretty awful."

The Slytherin eyed him with surprising sympathy. He seemed to be debating something, and then to Harry's horror he drew his wand and took a step forward. "I've been working on a calming charm, if you want me to try…"

Harry's wand was already drawn before he finished. Malfoy froze, looking as if he'd been struck. "Fine," he grumbled, "I was just trying to help."

He lowered his wand, but Harry didn't. As Malfoy had taken the first step towards him, Harry noticed something that made his blood run cold. Now he pointed the tip of his hawthorn rod at Draco's left arm. "You fucking did it, Malfoy, didn't you?"

"What?" the boy said in what might have sounded like real confusion, had not Harry known better.

"That … that _thing_ on your arm!" Harry spit out. "You're a Death Eater."

"What, this?" Draco held his arm out to Harry, who flinched away. The coils of the dark mark were always horrific, but on Malfoy's thin arm seemed especially gruesome. "This is just the mark of an old wizarding society, the Order of Walpurgis. My father wanted me to join."

"The Order of what?" Harry asked, then shook his head as Draco started to explain. "Who do you think you're kidding, Malfoy? It's the Dark Mark—you're one of Voldemort's followers!"

Draco's brow knit in confusion. "Who? Merlin's teeth, Potter, what are you talking about? And put your wand down."

"No." Harry held his wand steady, pointed right at Malfoy's heart. "No, you're trying to kill me. Admit it, this whole thing is a Death Eater plot, isn't it?"

To his great surprise, Malfoy laughed. It was the same laugh Harry'd seen at breakfast that first morning back—an easy laugh, one that rolled up from his belly and poured from his throat. "Potter, I don't get you at all. Here we've gone seven years without speaking to each other, and now you suddenly think I'm trying to kill everyone." Draco shook his head so vigorously that his blond locks fell out of place. He didn't seem to care. Instead, he kept chuckling. "You're fucking mental, you know that?"

Harry should have reminded Malfoy that mocking the person pointing a wand at your heart wasn't the wisest move, but he was too taken aback by the boy's words to speak. His entire existence at Hogwarts had centred on his rivalry with Draco Malfoy, wanna-be Heir of Slytherin and all-around prat. If that was gone, like everything else in his life seemed to be, then Harry wasn't sure what he could believe. At last he said, in a much less confident voice than he wished, "Malfoy, we've always been enemies. You've been hounding me for years."

The other boy just scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. I hardly knew your name before you slandered my father last week." His steel-grey eyes fixed on Harry's. "Now, for the last time, put down your wand, I don't care to be petrified again. I've got a match this afternoon and I'll get enough bruises from the bludgers, thanks very much."

Harry glared at his would-be enemy. He felt like he'd been struck by a bludger himself, like his broom had been knocked from under him and he was hurtling towards the earth. His wand hand no longer steady, Harry lowered it to his side. "You'd better go then. But I'll be watching you, Malfoy."

"You're absolutely potty, aren't you?" Draco rolled his eyes and his amused chuckle returned. "'Potty Potter.' I like that—I should make some badges."

Harry felt a deep sense of déjà vu. "Get out, Malfoy," he croaked. The Slytherin met his eyes for a moment, and Harry saw none of his enemy's normal animosity. Now there was just vacant amusement. To his surprise, that hurt more than anything. Then the boy brushed past him; his chuckles echoed all the way down the stone staircase.

"Harry, would you come on already? We're late!"

Harry gave up looking for clean school robes and dashed out wearing just his Muggle jumper and jeans. Hermione's schedule had allotted fifty minutes to the Slytherin-Ravenclaw match, with fifteen minutes on either side to get to and from the pitch. Ron had never given up protesting that this wasn't enough time, but after his early morning run-in with Malfoy, Harry thought it might be too long.

The boy's parting words had filled Harry with a sense of deep annoyance. His enemy had spared no time or expense creating "Potter Stinks" badges in fourth year; now, with even more magic skill, there was no telling what extremes he might go to. So it was with more than a little trepidation that Harry followed Ron down the Hogwarts halls and through the courtyard, with each step bracing himself for the whirling badges decorating his classmates' robes. Instead he saw …

 _Nothing._

Oh, there was a sea of bodies streaming down to the pitch. The Ravenclaws and Slytherins were proudly displaying their school scarves despite the warm May sunshine, the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were placing last minute bets on the outcome of the Cup, and even the teachers were surrendering to the festive atmosphere and the imminent end of term by actually enjoying themselves. But not a single soul seemed to notice when "Potty Potter" passed by. It seemed too good to be true.

 _"Something's happened to Malfoy,"_ Harry realised as he and Ron entered the stadium, adding with not a small amount of satisfaction, _"and I'm sure he deserved it."_

The thought lifted his spirits so much that he was grinning by the time they reached the Gryffindor stand. Hermione was already there; a book bag bursting at its seams was slung across the seats she'd saved for them. She shut her weighty transfiguration text as soon as they arrived.

"Can't even enjoy the match without a book," Ron grumped, but he sounded amused.

"I'll put it away once they start, I promise," she replied cheerily, stuffing her bulging bag under the bleacher seats. As if on cue, a voice boomed out:

 _"Welcome, Hogwarts Quidditch fans, to the last match of the year—and the one to decide the Quidditch Cup. Ravenclaw House versus Slytherin House, the raven or the snake … who will be crowned this year's Cup champion?"_

Harry didn't listen as Zacharias Smith detailed the records of that year's games. He wouldn't have seen the point anyway—he didn't remember any of them—but that wasn't why the cause of his distraction. His attention was stolen by the Slytherin team shooting into the stadium, led by a pale blond boy who raced in as if a host of Dementors was on his tail. Malfoy steadily rose until his broom was level with Harry, high above the pitch, and then swung sharply around. He cast his eye around at the stand, at all the cheering students, and Harry braced for the cold glare he knew would fall on him any second.

But the second passed, as did the Slytherin's glance, with no sign of recognition. Malfoy hadn't noticed that Harry was even there! And as the boy plunged his broom downward at breakneck speed, skimming the edges of the pitch, Harry's unnerved feeling returned in full force. Much as he hated his enemy's attentions, they'd been a staple in his life, something he could count on as surely as Uncle Vernon's spite, shepherd's pie in the dining hall on Mondays, and the school year ending with him facing Voldemort.

 _"Don't flatter yourself, Potter. I hardly knew your name before you slandered my father last week."_

Malfoy's words fluttered across his mind. It was a brutally sharp reminder that he was a stranger in this world—a stranger ill-equipped to sit his exams, cautious about his words lest they worry his friends, and not even really sure of the standings in the Hogwarts Cup. Truly, he didn't belong here.

"Harry, where are you going?"

Ron stared as if he was nutters to leave the match so early. And frankly, Harry felt like he was. He didn't even remember standing.

"I'm just … I'm not feeling well," he stammered. "I'm going to walk around a bit."

"Would you like us to come with you?" Hermione asked, Ron beside her looking like he'd be willing but not really eager to leave.

"No, you don't need to. I just want to get on solid ground."

The crowd whooped as Slytherin scored and Harry made his way down the stairs. Their roar grew muffled as he ducked under the stands, but the stomping footsteps above made each step he took on the wooden steps feel shakier than the last. He was grateful when his runners finally sank into the soft earth. Overcome with fatigue, he sat on the last step, covering his face with his hands. His brief light-heartedness had completely disappeared, just as his sanity had. Could he actually _want_ Malfoy to pay attention to him? _"Barking,"_ Uncle Vernon would have said. _"Howling mad."_

"Would you like to wear these?" said a girl's voice so close that Harry almost jumped. He opened his eyes to see Luna Lovegood holding out her Spectrespecs. "Sometimes they help me when my head hurts."

Harry shook his head, but smiled at Luna. "I'm fine. I just needed some air."

He realised how strange this sounded, seeing as the stands were out-of-doors, but Luna just nodded sagely. "It's hard to breathe with all the Bumberglees out today."

"Bumblebees?" Harry repeated, but Luna shook her head.

"Bumberglees. They live in the wind, but if there are too many people they get trapped. It makes the air too thick. It's okay," she reassured him, "there's no wind under here. They don't like it unless it's moving."

As he often felt around Luna, Harry was unsure whether to laugh or think she knew something he didn't. This time he had the added and unwelcome fear that she might be saner than he. To avoid thinking any more on that, he asked, "Why aren't you announcing today, Luna? Seeing as it's Ravenclaw and all."

"Zacharias asked me not to—he said that I confused people last time. I don't think it was me, though. I think it was the Bumberglees."

"I'm sure it was," Harry consoled her, feeling quite uncharitable towards Smith. Loony Lovegood might not be what anyone called normal, but she'd stood by him in the Ministry and never missed a single DA meeting. And without that past that no longer existed, even fewer people were probably giving the girl a chance. The thought made him reconsider when she grinned and held out the spectrespecs again.

"Are you sure you don't want to try them on?"

"Oh, why not—what've I got to lose?" Harry asked. What did he have to lose indeed? Everything that mattered had already been taken away, from his memories of the past to his future as an Auror. And what was the point of being an Auror anyway, in this world that he didn't know? The Spectrespecs might not help him see any more clearly, but they certainly couldn't make things any more bleak.

Or so he thought.

As soon as Harry slid the psychedelic spectacles over his own glasses he felt the earth tilt at least ninety degrees. Shapes multiplied before his eyes, colliding into each other, spinning around each other. The visions battered Harry's body and his mind, leaving him feeling bruised and helpless. Fortunately he was already sitting down or he would have fallen; even so, he gripped the stair railing to help him ride out the waves that rocked his body. The sounds above grew deafening, the crowd's roar sounding like a freight train speeding toward him.

"Closing one eye might help."

Somewhere in the din Luna's soft voice managed to find him. Harry fought one eyelid closed and the spinning slowed to a tolerable pace.

"Don't worry," Luna's voice broke through again. "It won't always be like this."

Using just one eye to squint through the lens did help. Even without their full effect the Spectrespecs did make the world look a lot different. The kaleidoscope vision that had so unsettled him was gone, leaving a vision of just the angles of things, brightened with colours rich and essential. Luna's too-blue scarf looked as stiff and square as the wooden supports holding up the bleachers, and the curve of her pink ear seemed remarkably close to her small pointed nose. Harry felt like he was seeing the world like Picasso must have, with multiple planes visible at the same time. It was nothing like the real world, softened by time and emotions, but he sensed that what was before him was somehow more real without those obscurations.

"How do they do that?" Harry asked, peering up at Luna.

Through the psychedelic shades she rose up beside him like a wall, more solid than he remembered her ever being. Her shoulder slanted at a dangerous angle, its shrug almost threatening to tip her over. "It's magic, Harry."

At that moment, Harry heard a terrible scream, followed by a thud that sounded exactly like a bag of wet cement falling on concrete. Instinctively he stood, but the world spun again. It took a second to realise he was still wearing the Spectrespecs, and by the time he'd whipped them off and found an opening in the tarp, a small crowd had already gathered on the green. Luna was already there, as was Madam Hooch and several of the Ravenclaw players. On the ground lay the too-still body of Kylie Kriz, and above her, to Harry's horror, stood Millicent Bulstrode, her wand pointed straight at the Ravenclaw seeker's heart as she mumbled some Dark Magic.

"No!" Harry lunged at Millicent, knocking the wand from her hand, but the girl was sturdy and didn't fall. She made a grab for her wand, but Harry pushed her again, oblivious to the shocked cries around him. He was about to try for another tackle when his arms were grabbed from behind.

"What the devil are you doing, Potter?"

Harry struggled against the voice, against the strong hands pinning him, but Malfoy held him fast. "She's killing her," he cried out to anyone who would listen. "Stop her!" But the others weren't listening; in fact, Terry Boot had picked up Millicent's wand and handed it back. Harry wrenched again against his captor, but the Slytherin's grip didn't loosen. He held Harry firm against his lithe body, his leather quidditch gloves chafing Harry's skin. For just an instant Harry remembered these same arms clinging tightly to him as roaring Fiendfyre gnawed at the hem of their robes. He banished the thought quickly, replacing it with another fierce lunge for freedom. "Let me go!"

To his surprise, Malfoy acceded to his demand, hurling him towards the stands and away from the injured girl. Harry tripped backwards, falling hard on the ground. He looked up to see his enemy's wand drawn against him, and despite the sun shining brightly down, Harry felt again the horror of that night when he lay helpless before those gleaming red eyes.

 _Harry did not stand, and he did not raise his wand. The boy must die, and so he would…_

Maybe he had died, and he'd been living in hell ever since. Or maybe _this_ was supposed to be the end. He'd been meant to die, and if Voldemort hadn't done it, then it was fitting that Malfoy, his follower, Harry's enemy, make the final Killing Curse.

But Malfoy didn't utter the spell. Instead he lowered his wand and said through clenched teeth. "Get him out of here, Luna. Now. Before I do something I'll regret."

Harry felt an insistent tug on his shirt sleeve. "Come on, Harry, let's go see if there's any pudding in the kitchen." After several attempts, the girl at last got him to his feet. Somehow his feet moved away, although he nearly stumbled when he looked back and saw Millicent again bending over Kylie. Luna held him steady, though, and didn't let him stop until they were almost out of sight.

"She's going to kill Kylie, or worse," Harry tried to explain, remembering the agony of having his bones liquefied by Gilderoy Lockhart during second year.

"No," Luna simply replied, "it's not like that anymore. Look."

Harry looked back and saw Kylie sitting up, Terry Boot reaching out to help her rise. It couldn't be true—a fall from that height would surely have broken something. And from the sound she'd made when she hit Harry was pretty sure she hadn't bounced.

Dazed, Harry let Luna lead him back under the bleachers. The once-empty space was now full of students making their way out onto the pitch. In the sand, about to be trampled, Harry spied the psychedelic glasses he'd dropped earlier. He snatched them up, still in one piece, but looking as wounded as Harry's own spectacles usually did. "I'm sorry, Luna," he said, his voice rough. "I think I broke your Spectrespecs."

"Keep them, Harry," she said lightly. "I have another pair."

Even thinking about the kaleidoscope visions and swirling planes made Harry feel queasy. "Thanks," he said, "but … I think it's better if I see the world the way it is right now."

She shrugged. "Okay. But still, keep them. You never know when you'll need them."

A crowd of Gryffindors were coming down the stairs now, crimson and gold descending like a spectacular sunset. "Luna," he said, "I'm not really in the mood for pudding right now. I think I'll wait here for Ron and Hermione."

"All right," Luna said, smiling. She started toward the exit, but before she'd gotten more than a few steps she stopped and looked back. "I meant it, Harry. It won't always be like this." And then she walked on, leaving Harry alone under the bleachers.

The N.E.W.T.s turned out to be every bit as bad as Harry feared. As Hermione had predicted, Hagrid gave him "Acceptable" marks in Care of Magical Creatures, despite bungling the exam and letting two Knarls out of their pen. He couldn't even blame the havoc they'd caused in the greenhouse for his "Poor" grade in Herbology. No, that was due to mistaking a Bubotuber for Dungeongrass and ending up with boils covering his hands for two hours until Madam Pomfrey's antidote took effect. He did equally as badly in Charms. He started off strong with an Incarcerous spell, but then failed to cast, in quick succession, an Imperturbable Charm, Orchideous, and a Cheering Charm (which really was not a fair test at the end of such a dismal exam, he thought).

As bad as these marks were, they were better than the "Dreadfuls" he received in Astronomy and Potions. The former wasn't surprising—despite Hermione's attention to the subject, Harry had hardly cracked his textbook and ignored the extra hours she put into Professor Sinestra's lunascope. He was sorely disappointed with his Potions grade, however. He'd wanted to do well—somehow he felt he'd be letting Snape down if he didn't. But his wishes came to naught. His Euphoria Potion came out not cheerful yellow but a dull burnt orange, and when asked to list four uses of frog brains all he could remember were that they'd been splattered them across the dungeon ceiling during his second year.

It didn't help that Malfoy's potion turned out the same bright shade as the dandelions that dotted the Hogwarts lawn.

Only in Defence Against the Dark Arts did Harry earn an "E." The exam was a bit unconventional. Instead of a traditional wizard's duel, each student had to face a gang of attackers. "Muggings," Hermione confirmed in a whisper when she saw his surprise. "Haven't you been reading the _Prophet_?" In truth, Harry had been avoiding the paper, hesitant to see that the whole world—not just Hogwarts—had gone mad. But he did remember headlines proclaiming a spate of attacks on wizards and witches in London. The articles hadn't interested him enough to read. If this was the exam, though, Harry was well up for it—even if it meant he had to swallow his distaste of Amycus Carrow. With a few well-placed Expelliarmuses he disarmed his three opponents and then bound them with Petrificus spells. The (former?) Death Eater was soundly impressed, and even Malfoy's complaint that of course Harry would be good because he'd practiced on his classmates didn't dim his professor's enthusiasm. "Exceeds expectations!" he proclaimed before the whole class. "With those reflexes you'll make a fine Auror."

But Harry needed more than reflexes to become an Auror, and with such a dismal showing on his N.E.W.T.s he didn't stand a chance. He tried to be happy for Ron and Hermione, though. She was sorely disappointed with only three "Outstandings" and five "Exceeds Expectations," but Harry couldn't bring himself to feel too sorry for her. At least she'd helped Ron pass everything, albeit with only "Acceptable" grades. Still, it would get him into the less demanding provisional Auror ranks, as Harry reminded his friend. He could retake his exams there, and assuming he did well, be promoted to full status in just a few years.

In turn, his friends were both overly sensitive to Harry's situation, changing the subject whenever he approached. Frustrated by this constant reminder of his failure, Harry was almost glad when the final day arrived. His trunk was already packed, crammed with seven years of memories that he hadn't really had, and the cover tightly sealed. He wondered how long it would be before he opened it again.

With another hour before the Hogwarts Express departed, Harry set out for one last walk of the grounds. He soon found himself on the familiar path to Hagrid's hut, where his friend was tying up raspberry canes in the garden. "Hello, Hagrid," he called.

"Harry!" the big man answered back. "So what brings you out here? I thought I'd be seeing you off at the station."

Harry shook his head. "I had some extra time so I thought I'd come say bye to you and Fang."

The dog, sacked out in the door to the hut, lifted his head but showed any inclination to move from his spot in the sun, even when Hagrid stepped over him. "Let me just put the kettle on, I'll make us a spot of tea."

Harry nodded. He sat on the step scratching Fang's ear, looking out over the serene little meadow stretching before him. Instead of giving him peace, though, the sight sparked a deep sense of melancholy. This was Hogwarts, the one place he'd ever felt he belonged. This was where he'd learned to use the powers that had always frightened him. Where he'd discovered who his parents were and found and lost his godfather. Where he'd made his first friends, and his first enemies, and been both an outcast and a hero. Soon he'd be leaving forever, and he felt like he knew less than he had when he'd arrived seven years before.

"Here you go, Harry," Hagrid announced, handing him a chipped cup and saucer. "A touch of milk and sugar, just like you like it."

Just like he liked it indeed, and it almost hurt that Hagrid remembered that little detail when so much else was forgotten.

"Do you remember when we first met, Hagrid?" Harry asked, half fearing the answer he'd hear.

"Course I do, Harry. I even remember when you were just a wee thing, when your mum and dad died. Terrible accident, that." Hagrid settled across from Harry on an oversized camp chair, stirring his tea thoughtfully. "But you're probably asking 'bout when I brought you to Hogwarts. Couldn't get you away from those awful relatives of yours fast enough, could I?" Despite his unhappiness, Harry snickered. In any alternate dimension, it seemed the Dursleys were still hated. "But you're free of them now, ain't you? What'll you be doing with yourself now, do you think?"

"I … I don't know." This was the big question, and Harry didn't have an answer, although as soon as he stepped off the train at Platform 9 3/4 he would need one. "I … I don't think I even know who I am anymore."

"Who you are?" Hagrid seemed shocked by the question. "Why, you're James and Lily's boy, and you're a fine wizard, no matter what those N.E.W.T.s say. There's lots of jobs you don't need marks for. I reckon you can do just about anything you want to do."

Harry tried to smile. Hagrid's confidence should have bolstered his own, but he was afraid it was too late for that. True, there were shop jobs he could take up, maybe he could even learn a trade, but nothing he'd thought about doing before was possible now. "I guess I never really thought about what I'd do after the war," he admitted. "Being an Auror seemed a good way to keep going, but now…" Harry sighed heavily.

But he'd lost Hagrid somewhere. "The war?"

Harry stifled his next sigh behind his teacup. He really wasn't up for explanations right now. "It's a Muggle thing," he lied. "Just how they keep time."

"Ne'er understood Muggles," Hagrid admitted, shaking his head.

To change the subject, Harry asked, "What'd my father do? Isn't that strange—I don't even know what my father did?"

Hagrid seemed to give this matter some thought. "Well," he finally said, "James Potter had money. He didn't have to do much of anything, I reckon."

Harry was shocked by this revelation. "You mean he didn't have a job at all? My dad just lay about, like Malfoy's?"

"Now, Harry," Hagrid admonished, "I know being a Ministry politician isn't the most difficult job in the world, but it's got to be hard work, being fair to everybody equally."

Harry snorted. "Fair? Lucius Malfoy?" He remembered the Death Eater right here in Hagrid's cottage demanding Buckbeak be put to death. Fair was the last word he'd ever associate with Malfoy. "If there was any fairness in the world he'd be in Azkaban or worse."

Hagrid put down his cup and regarded the boy sternly. "Harry, it's not like you to speak so ill of people. Far as I can tell, Malfoy's done a good job, else he wouldn't be kept on there. Say what you want about Thicknesse, but he's not the type to tolerate idlers."

"But ... he's a Malfoy!" Harry insisted. "He's rich and mean, and a Slytherin through and through."

"Of all people..." Hagrid started, then shook his head. "I never thought you'd end up so narrow-minded, Harry, hating people just for what house they're sorted into. Why, I haven't seen that kind of bigotry since my own Hogwarts days. Dumbledore would've put a stop to that kind of talk right quick if he was here, I can tell you, and I'm sorry he's not." Hagrid looked out over his garden, at the leafy canes half-tied to a wire, and grumbled, "I hate to think what you've thought of me over the years."

"Oh, no," clamoured Harry, feeling their conversation careening out of control. "I've never thought badly of you! You've been one of my best friends here. And one of my best teachers," he quickly added. "I really don't think I could've made it through Hogwarts without you."

"Well," said Hagrid, his ruffled feathers smoothed a bit by Harry's declarations, "I appreciate that. I'd just hate to see you turn against anybody who's the least bit different." He cocked a thick eyebrow at Harry. "Besides, once you get back to London you might find you've got more in common with the Malfoys than you might think."

Harry frowned. He didn't want to imagine he had anything in common with that arrogant family. But before he could ask Hagrid what he'd meant, the sound of a shrill whistle came blowing across the fields. The Hogwarts Express had arrived.

"You'd best run along now, Harry," said Hagrid, standing tall. "You don't want to miss the train."

But Harry _did_ want to miss it. He wanted to stay here at Hogwarts until he'd figured everything out, until everybody remembered what had happened, until Hagrid realised why he wasn't like Malfoy, until he could figure out who he was. He felt like he'd been cheated out of seven years—years he'd spent learning about a world that no longer existed. And as he swung his arms around Hagrid's girth, and felt the man's huge hands gently patting his back, his eyes stung with the injustice of it all.

"You can do anything you dream of," Hagrid's voice was choked with emotion. "And I know you'll do me proud."

With regret, Harry finally tore himself away. He hurried to Hogsmeade for the very last time with Hagrid's words still ringing in his ears, and wishing he could remember what it was he really dreamed.


	5. Casus Belli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Casus belli**  
>  An act used to justify war_

The aged witch freed an exhausted sigh as she pushed the door shut. "Can you believe that rain?" she said to no one in particular, hanging her Macintosh on the hook beside an assortment of antiquated hats. "Coming down in buckets, it is."

Fat grey droplets clung to the black brolly, reluctant to disappear into the growing puddle around her Wellies despite the good shake she gave it. The witch sat on the stool at the base of the landing and tugged off the rubber boots, then slid her stockinged feet into pale pink house shoes, warm beside the radiator. "Well, that's better," she announced. Huffing with the exertion of the very old, she made her way to her overstuffed armchair. One swish of her wand ignited a roaring fire, another brought a piping hot cup of tea flying from the kitchen, and a final one filled the air with music—Nelson Eddy and Jeannette MacDonald crooning about eternal love. With everything just so, she let her wand fall to the thick rug and cradled the teacup in her shaky hands.

Her peace was shattered by a crash from the floor above. The witch sat up slightly, careful not to spill her hot drink. "Aengus? Is that you?"

A snarling black furball flew through the doorway fast as a hurricane and disappeared under the settee.

"Oh, now, Aengus, what have you gotten into." The witch's gentle chiding did nothing to calm her pet, who hissed from his hiding place. "Made a right mess, I'm sure."

The cat didn't respond, despite the witch's childlike cooing. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she sat her cup on the side table and leaned over for the flap of upholstery that hid him, but this was made rather difficult by her overly generous torso. When bending in half proved unsuccessful she finally gave up and slowly lowered herself to her hands and knees. "There now, Gran's not upset," she assured the animal as she peered under the settee. "Come out and we'll see if we can't find you some fishy. You like fishy, don--"

A gloved hand strangled her next words. It roughly pulled her back, slamming her head against a man's thigh. "I like fishy," he slurred. "Fishy and chips, just the thing after too much firewhisky." She craned her neck up to look at him, terrified, but he'd masked his features with a charm—all she could make out was straggly brown hair and a sharp angled jaw, and gums with too many missing teeth. "I like things that smell fishy too..." His other hand fell to her shoulder, then his palm slid downwards along her heavy breast, and the witch squeezed her eyes shut tight. "I'll give you three guesses what that might be..."

"I'll give _you_ three guesses what Boss'll say if you don't cut that out." The witch opened her eyes to see another figure stride across the room. He had the same accent, one that reminded her of dark alleys around Spitalfields when she was a girl—not the ones by the church yard, but the ones on the other side where her mother said ghosts lived and young witches vanished forever. "Business first," he said, then his eyes dragged down her body, "then pleasure."

The witch's heart, already racing, sped up even more. She twisted her head just a fraction, just enough to see her wand where she'd dropped it carelessly on the pile. Just a little over a metre away, if she could just reach it she could...

"Nuh uh uh," scolded the wizard by the hearth, pointing his wand straight at her heart. "Try that and you'll be toast before you can say 'Accio.' And trust me," he added, leaning in close, so close that the sharp bite of onions and cigarettes almost made her choke. "What I'll do to you is nothing compared to what my associate here will come up with." He straightened and looked down at her. "Now can you be a good granny and behave yourself?"

She hesitated because she'd forgotten how to move. Paralysed, the bitter spread of blood across her tongue almost made her faint—it took her what seemed like hours to realise it was because she'd bitten her own lip when the leather-clad hand tightened on her mouth.

"Think she might need some encouragement," said the voice behind her, and the other responded with "Accio cat!"

The creature rose like a puff of dirty factory smoke into the man's grasp. Spewing hisses did him no good, however; the hold on his neck scruff was too tight. The witch shook with helpless fury as the man examined the cat with disgust. "Have you ever seen a cat cruciated?" he asked? "It's really a good laugh. Can't stop twitching for hours after. Almost makes you want to put them out of their misery." He pointed his wand deliberately at the squirming black mass, then looked down at the woman. "Ready to cooperate?"

She nodded vigorously, at least as much as she could with the too-tight grip on her jaw. But it was enough for the two men. She was released abruptly, barely having time to reach out her hands to break her fall. Before she could even think to lunge for her wand it was too late—the man behind her snapped it in two. At the same time, magical bindings crawled up her fingers and laced her wrists together. She would have cried if she wasn't so frightened, and if Aengus hadn't looked so angry, hanging in mid-air.

"Pl-please," she stammered, "my knees..."

The wizard before her narrowed his eyes—she knew she wouldn't remember the features of his face, but those eyes black as coal she would never forget—and then nodded to the other, who took her arm. She hated herself for needing help, hated that she let this violator of her home touch her, but she was an old woman and at the moment felt older still. At least she didn't hear the cracks in her strained joints; her heart was beating so loudly it drowned out any other sound. Her captor lowered her to the sofa, then settled casually on the arm beside her, leering, his smile chipped and vacant.

She looked to the other man, the one with his wand still trained on her. "H-how did you get in?" The authority that quailed her grandson was gone from her voice; she sounded like the helpless old woman she knew she was.

The man beside her snickered, a cruel sound that made her body shake even more. "Those measly wards you had? Took us all of ten seconds to crack 'em."

"Took _me_ , you mean," snapped the other man. "And that's not important. What we need to know, Granny, is where you keep the good stuff. Your Galleons, jewellery, that sort of thing."

She breathed in slowly. Her grandson had told her she was foolish when she closed her Gringotts' accounts. There had been so many thefts there, though—whole vaults emptied and no one could explain it. Oh, not the larger vaults underground, of course; no, the wealth of the richer wizarding families was well-guarded. But for those of more modest means, Gringotts Wizarding Bank was proving untrustworthy.

"Well, where is it, Granny," said the man leaning on her—a Squib, she supposed, or maybe he just hadn't needed to draw his wand. He was curdling her blood enough without it, dragging his fingernail from the tip of her chin down her throat.

"Th-there's n-nothing here," she lied, clenching her teeth. "It's a-at G-Gringotts."

"Oh, Granny, you shouldn't have said that," he said, though his smile betrayed his pleasure with her answer. She stared at him in horror, waiting for his next terrible move, when she heard "Crucio" uttered from the other side of the room.

"No!" the witch cried out, trying to rise, but a gloved hand on her shoulder pushed her back down. Aengus was writhing on the floor, his head thumping against the hard hearthstones, shrieking in the most hideous pain. "Stop," she sobbed, "please stop!"

The howl went on for another minute before quietening, leaving a low discomforted whine in its place. And the voice of the wizard. "And you'll give us what we came for?"

"Yes," she agreed, wondering if she could get away with revealing just one of her hiding places. No need to mention the one in the root cellar, or the one hidden behind her heavy four-poster bed...

As if reading her mind, the man smiled. "Now, no secrets from us, Granny." He wasn't missing teeth like the Squib, but his smile was no less horrific for it, especially when he waved his wand in threatening circles over the cat still lying prone on the hearth. "Pussy didn't like that too much, did he?"

"No," she quickly agreed. "No secrets, please, just stop." She closed her eyes tight, firming up her resolve. She could do this. She'd weathered the death of her husband and the insanity of her only son; she could certainly give these two creatures enough of what they came for that they would go and leave her be, perhaps feeling a bit more vulnerable than before but still in one piece. Opening her eyes, she murmured. "There, in the lintel." Both men looked at her blankly. "The arch, above the fireplace."

The wizard directed his wand at the corbelled brick and recited the revealing spell. The masonry seemed to crack down the middle, then swung open to expose a glittering mass of gold and jewels.

"All that's left of the Longbottom treasure," she sniffed. "It's been in the family for hundreds of years."

"Nice try, Granny," said the Squib, who'd left her side to start scooping the treasure into his pockets. There were obviously charmed, for even when he reached far into the bowels of the safe to drag out the last jewels, there was no telltale evidence in the slim lines of his coat. "Where's the next bit?"

The witch clenched her hands tightly. "There's naught but some Galleons left..." she started, but was interrupted by a curse and the renewed wailing of her cat. "It's the truth," she insisted. "There's Galleons, in the cupboard. There's no charm on them, they're just in a stoneware jar."

"Go ahead," said the wizard. "I'll keep an eye on her."

"All right," smirked the other man, leaning in uncomfortably close to the witch. "But don't do anything I wouldn't do." She jerked her head away, making him laugh heartily. "Oh, you'll be a fun one, Granny. I am looking forward to finishing our business." He was still laughing as he left the room.

And the other wizard was eyeing her coldly. She shuddered as he walked slowly toward her and sat, too close, on the sofa. "Now, why don't we get a head start, Gran? You just tell me where we look next, and I..." he tapped his wand on her knee before waving it toward Aengus, who was panting shallowly and looking like nothing more than a discarded rubbish bag, "I won't make this worse for the poor pussy."

The witch's throat was dry. She'd believed she was being so clever as she'd hidden things. _"Who needs those greedy goblins?"_ she'd thought as she divided the Longbottom wealth, passed down from one generation to the next. And now she was being burgled like a Muggle, her careful wards useless and her magic neutered. Her mouth opened but she couldn't find her voice. And then it was too late.

"Stop it!" she screamed over her pet's howls. But the wizard didn't stop, he just grinned cruelly. She knew then that she wasn't going to get out of this, not even if she gave them everything they asked for. _Especially_ if she gave them everything they asked for.

"Gran? Gran, are you there?"

Aengus' howls stopped abruptly, making the curses of the wizard beside her seem even louder. "Aurors!" he shouted, and she heard her great-grandmother's stoneware crock crashing on the kitchen tile.

"Gran, I'm coming..."

The voice sounded like it hailed from another world, one where she was safe, where she could sit and enjoy her cup of tea and share a spot of milk with Aengus while Jeannette MacDonald sang of the mystery of life and fat raindrops provided a counterpoint rhythm on the windowpane. It didn't belong in this one, where her cat whimpered pitifully and cursing men Disapparated away while she shuddered helplessly. "Neville," she murmured, closing her eyes, but not before seeing her tall grandson duck out of the hearth with his wand drawn.

The bell over the door at Critswold's Creatures wasn't an energetic jingle like at Madam Milkin's, or even an authoritative jangle like at Ollivander's Wand Shop. The closest thing that Harry could liken it to was a cowbell's clang, the dull thud of metal on metal. It was fitting, he often thought, for the clientele attracted to Critswold's were neither the energetic nor the authoritative kind. This out-of-the-way shop straddled the corner of the first bend in Knockturn Alley, just far enough from the Diagon High Street to be shunned by respectable folk, but not so deep as to attract the shady sort that haunted the dark potions makers and the pubs where patrons never shared names or did anybody any favours.

It was the perfect place for Harry to disappear.

Critswold's Creatures was the last place he would have imagined he'd end up, but he'd needed a job—money seemed to seep through his fingers like a dripping faucet that refuses to be fixed—and after all the other Diagon shops turned him away, Harry had appealed to the non-existent goodwill of Crispin Critswold. Failing that, he asked Hagrid to send a letter recommending him. Harry wasn't sure what it said, but the very next day a startled-looking long-eared owl brought a message that simply said, _"I need someone to clean out the bats cages. You can start tomorrow at 10."_ Harry had kept showing up every day for the next two years, except for Sundays and Mondays when the shop was closed.

It was late Saturday afternoon now, and Harry was looking forward to his weekend. It began, as it always did, with dinner at Ron and Hermione's. After leaving Hogwarts, Harry had explored the wizarding enclaves of Europe, from the Left Bank in Paris to the ancient plazas of Óbuda, the winding mountaintop city of Toledo to the canals of St. Petersburg. He'd wandered alone among strangers, and it was better somehow. These were people who had never known his name, which meant they'd never forgotten it. And that was how he liked it. But on his twenty-first birthday, lost somewhere in the maze-like pathways of the Fes el Bali, he looked up through hazy hookah smoke to see a weary grey owl winging its way toward him. It was Errol, carrying a single line in Ron's scrawling hand:

 _Come home—I can't get married without a best man._

And so Harry did. Mostly for Ron and Hermione, but also because he couldn't bear to send the decrepit owl back all that way alone. When he Apparated to the Burrow and handed the flustered bundle of feathers to Molly Weasley, she'd hugged him so hard he couldn't breathe.

The wedding was held at the Autumn Equinox. And as soon as Hermione and Ron had moved into an old Essex farmhouse (to be near Hermione's parents who, she reminded Ron, could not floo in whenever they felt like visiting) they started having him over every Saturday night. Sometimes Harry thought it was so they could check up on him. Sometimes he didn't mind that. Even at its most annoying, Hermione's fussing had always been strangely comforting to him, the boy who'd never had a mother to fuss. He sometimes teased them about when they'd have a boogle of Weasleys all their own. Hermione would invariably turn up her nose and remind him that she was on a career track and would consider it after she was heading up the Magical Catastrophes Department. Ron would just shrug and give Harry a look that said she could do whatever she wanted, that she always had, and that he still didn't quite believe she'd wanted to be his wife.

Harry rarely saw his friends during the week. They all worked in the magical corridor, but he pointedly avoided their Ministry offices. And he liked wandering out into Muggle London at the end of the day, shoulder to shoulder with the millions of other Londoners pouring into the streets like a burst water main. Sure, it would be easy enough to Apparate directly to his flat, but as he shuffled onto the No. 73 bus that took him to Stoke Newington, Harry could almost forget he possessed any kind of magical powers or been destined for any kind of greatness.

Mr Critswold made sure he forgot that at work too. On many days, Harry's most challenging task was to try to predict whether to fill the Knarls' bowl completely, as Mr Critswold had barked at him to do the day before, or to only fill it halfway, as he had ordered the day before that.

"Harry!" Critswold bellowed now from the front of the shop, and before Harry could even answer he heard, "Where is that blasted boy?"

"Coming, Mr Critswold," he called as he removed the soiled paper from the bottom of the black vulture's cage. He gave up trying to replace the cage lining and clicked the door latch shut. The bird squawked its disapproval and promptly dribbled on the bare floor. "Nice," muttered Harry. "If a duck hunter ever comes in, you're going on sale."

"HARRY!"

Grumbling, he ducked through the low doorframe that led to sales floor. At the counter stood a blonde woman wearing a Muggle mini-skirt that was far too short and heels that were far too high. She towered over the balding man beside her, who looked bored and none too happy to be there. Harry tore his eyes from them to look at his boss. "Yes, Mr Critswold?"

His boss' narrow glare almost made his eyes disappear. "Mrs Archer's cobra eggs, are they ready?"

 _Crap._ All day Harry had felt like he was forgetting something. And what an order to forget. A dozen cobra eggs, all laid within two days. The fertility potion he'd given Simbi to produce such a bounty had made her so listless and grumpy that Harry had ignored her since last night's dinner. And now she would be even more miserable.

"Coming right up," said Harry, returning to the store room. He'd moved Simbi's crate into the quietest corner where she wouldn't be disturbed, and even plugged an electric heater in beside her. He hoped that it had worked, and that they had enough eggs for the order. "Ssssimbi," he hissed as he approached her box. "I'm afraid I need your eggs now."

The snake moved with lightning speed, coiling around her eggs before standing erect. She swayed menacingly. "Suppose I do not let you steal my children?"

Harry frowned. "Then Mr Critswold will do it, and you know he doesn't care if he hurts you." The snake's hood flared, and Harry guessed she was remembering the last order, when his boss had used a specially designed pitchfork to pin the snake's head while her eggs were snatched. A dozen cobra eggs were easily worth a thousand Galleons, enough to keep Mr Critswold smiling for at least a week, and he would do anything necessary to get them. "I'm sorry, Simbi, I really am."

Weaving slightly side to side, the serpent seemed to consider her options. Then she withdrew to the corner of her box, still looking at Harry warily. "Steal my children, then. Let her crush the life of my children, take it for her own."

"I'm sorry, Simbi," Harry hissed again as he picked up the last egg. It wouldn't fit in the box, though, and he counted quickly again. "Simbi, there's an extra egg! You laid an extra one—you can keep it!"

The snake's hood widened in excitement, then collapsed. "He will take it too ... sell it too."

Harry shook his head. "No," he assured her, "I'll help you hide it. I'm the only one who cleans your cage, you'll just have to cover it when he's around." _"And when it's born, then what?"_ But Harry could figure that out later. Right now he could save one of Simbi's children. He carefully set the egg back on her green coils, which rustled as she lowered it back to the box. "I'll be back in a minute to check on you. Cover it now, just in case."

Simbi's forked tongue darted out at him. "Thank you, Harry."

Feeling strangely proud of what he'd done, Harry delivered the tray of eggs to the front. "Finally," Mrs Archer sighed, snatching the eggs so roughly that Harry winced for the soft shells.

"I'm sure you'll find everything to your satisfaction," gushed Mr Critswold. "I can expect a goblin delivery by tomorrow, I assume?"

But before he got an answer, Dividina Archer made a funny squeak that grew into a wail. "The egg is cracked," she whined, staring at her husband with tearful eyes.

"What's this then, Critswold?" demanded her husband. "Are you trying to cheat me?"

Critswold rounded on Harry angrily. "You cracked an egg?"

"I didn't!" Harry protested. He knew he wouldn't get very far by saying that Mrs Archer had cracked it herself, but he never could stomach being falsely accused. "They were fine when I brought them out!"

"Are you calling my wife a liar?" Mr Archer seethed.

"No, I ..."

Harry started to explain that he'd said nothing like that, but Mr Critswold leapt into the fray. "He wasn't saying that, I'm sure, were you, Harry?" Not waiting for Harry to reply, he said, "He just meant that we'll try to get another egg for you right away. Won't you, Harry?"

Harry peeked into the box where one of the fragile little eggs was leaking its life's essence into the cardboard. He thought of the egg still laying in the cobra's nest, but now he was even more loathe to give it up. "I don't think she's up to it, sir," he said instead. "She's really weak ... she didn't even put up a fight when I took the eggs."

"Well, you cannot expect what we'd agreed on for a dozen..." scowled Archer.

"No, no, of course not," Mr Critswold assured him. "What if I take off ten percent?"

"Ten percent? That's an insult! At least twenty—the spell will be practically useless now."

"But these are the very freshest eggs are money can buy—you won't have any trouble with potency," argued Mr Critswold. "And it takes such a toll on my snake. It'll be weeks before she's any use to me at all."

As they negotiated, Harry withdrew to the back room and quickly arranged some stones in Simbi's crate to better hide her egg. He had just finished when he heard the store bell clang and a minute later was joined by Mr Critswold.

"Nine hundred galleons for eleven eggs!" he exclaimed. "That man's a thief, I tell you. Bastard probably had her break the egg on purpose just to lower the price."

Harry blinked, registering that Mr Critswold didn't blame him for the damage. At least not entirely. But that didn't mean he couldn't find blame for something else. It was at that moment that Mr Critswold spotted the mess in the augery's cage.

"Have you learned nothing about animals in all this time? There are two constants—they eat and they shit. You can't forget either one."

"Sorry, Mr Critswold, I was in the middle of..."

His excuse was dismissed with a brusque hand. "Well, you'll stay until it's clean. And put that snake back out front before you go. I don't care if she just lies there, customers like to see her. And there's rubbish to take out..."

And so Harry's workday ended as it had every day for the past two years, with Mr Critswold ticking off an endless list of things that needed doing before he left for the night. But in the back of his mind he couldn't help but think of the tiny little egg sheltered in the cobra's tail.

Shadows stretched long across the pavement before Harry made it to the Weasley-Granger residence. He often arrived late, however, and as none of them had to work the next day, they never seemed to mind. One if not both of them were usually waiting in the sitting room for him, so he was surprised when he found the room empty.

"Ron? Hermione?"

"In here!"

Harry made his way to the kitchen where he found Ron wearing a full cook's apron. He started to smirk, but his friend shook a wooden spoon in warning.

"Not a single word."

Harry grinned. "I'm not saying a thing." He pulled out one of the Muggle beers he'd brought and popped the cap off, handing it to his friend. "Just a little surprised to see you looking so ... domestic."

"Yeah, well, Hermione's busy so I promised I'd handle dinner. She said to get take out, but I thought Mum's beef stew might suit her better." He took the offered beer and gave Harry a careful eye. "Well, you look chuffed. Did your boss get eaten by a python?"

Harry smirked, but shook his head. "Not quite. But I did do something he won't like." He told his friend all about the Archers' order, and what he'd done with the snake and her egg. As usual, Ron seemed uncomfortable when Harry mentioned Parseltongue—it just wasn't natural, he claimed—but cackled with delight at the thought that Dividina Archer's beauty potion might fail because Harry was harbouring a fugitive egg.

"Just watch—the next _Witch Weekly_ will have a whole spread speculating it's because of all the stress she's dealing with."

Harry snickered. "With before and after pictures."

"Of course," Ron nodded. "And then the _Prophet_ will pick it up as a sign that the Archer Empire's in ruins." He took another sip of beer, eyes growing wide, and he slammed the bottle on the counter. "Merlin's knickers, Harry, your egg could be responsible for the collapse of the entire economy!"

Harry laughed. "Hermione will love that. Speaking of, where is she?"

Instead of answering, Ron frowned and turned back to the stew. His movements were so deliberate as to make Harry very nervous. "She's at St. Mungo's sitting with Neville," he finally said.

"Neville!" Harry exclaimed. "What's happened to Neville?"

"It's his grandmother. Some burglars broke into her house and attacked her."

"Merlin! Is she all right?"

Ron nodded. "She is. She was shaken up pretty badly, though. They kept her at the hospital last night to watch her. I don't know what's happening now. We just heard the story this afternoon from Neville, and Hermione Apparated over straightaway."

"Gods, that's terrible," Harry muttered. Ron grunted his agreement as he swallowed down more of his beer.

The two years that Harry had been back in London had been marred by a fear worse than anything he remembered from his years at Hogwarts. What had begun as the seemingly random muggings that came up during their N.E.W.T.s had grown to break-ins at homes and almost all the Diagon shops. The once-impenetrable Gringotts had been burgled repeatedly, causing a run on the bank the likes of which no one had seen since the Great Slump. It left the wizarding community feeling increasingly vulnerable. Even if a person avoided the news, as Harry did, they couldn't help but hear stories—everyone knew someone who'd been touched by the violence. In recent months, Harry had even had to wind his way through several demonstrations of witches demanding Ministry action.

Harry knew the Ministry was acting—every Auror squad was involved in the investigations—but when asked how things were going, Ron would shake his head in frustration. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the attacks, other than that they seemed incredibly well planned and were becoming exceedingly savage.

Harry shuddered to think what they'd done to unsettle the formidable Mrs Longbottom so completely. "How did they get in? Wasn't her house warded?"

"Yeah, it had some of the strongest wards I've ever seen." Ron scrubbed his palm on his forehead. "Some were even cast by Neville's great-grandfather—you know how strong those old wards are."

Harry did know. The discomforting thought that the Black family had originally warded number twelve, Grimmauld Place (with Merlin knew what kinds of holes woven into the spells) was one of the things that had driven him from England years before. It was definitely one of the reasons he'd chosen to make his home in a Muggle flat instead.

"And the crazy thing is," Ron continued, "not only did they break through her wards, but they cast some new ones while they were there. Really strong ones—Roger Davies is the best ward-cracker we've got, and Neville said it took him ages to get through."

"Why? What was so special about them?"

"Neville said that every time they unravelled one piece, it knotted back into another section. They finally figured out they had to neuter the ends before they could go on to the next bit."

Warding was one of the seventh year subjects that Harry had missed, so he only knew the bare bones about it, but even so he knew that wasn't normal. "Can't you figure out who cast the wards?"

"We're working on it," Ron said, but his voice was heavy. "To be honest, with all the security companies offering 'new and improved' warding, we're in over our head. They're coming out with something new every day." He grimaced as he added, "I couldn't even tell you how our wards here work anymore."

Harry thought of all the customers who'd been through the shop, talking about their new warding systems. He'd never given it much thought before. "Those security companies must be making a killing."

"They are. And it's getting to where, if you don't have the latest wards, you're practically wearing a target. You might want to look into it—especially for the old place, since you're never there."

Harry had to smile at that. Burglars were welcome to any of the Black's decayed gothic treasures. "I really don't think they'd want anything I've got."

"I suppose not," agreed Ron. "Though I wouldn't mind getting my hands on your old flying broom."

"Oh, really?" Harry laughed. "So if there's a break in, I'll have them search here first?"

"The real crime is that you don't take it out more. When's the last time you flew?"

Harry thought back. It had been a while. "Must've been at the Burrow, I guess, on your birthday."

Ron was preparing an indignant response when they heard a loud crack in the sitting room. "That must be herself." He handed the wooden spoon to Harry and pointed at the soup. "Keep an eye on that, will you?"

It was several minutes before he reappeared, followed by Hermione who was cradling a small grey parcel. She gave Harry a peck on the cheek before falling into the chair Ron had pulled out for her. She looked exhausted, and her package seemed to be ... shivering. Harry looked closer. It was a cat with long, dull hair that was trying to burrow further into Hermione's lap.

Hermione caught him looking and smiled sadly. "It's Gran's cat," she explained. "They cruciated the poor thing to get her to cooperate." She stroked the cat's dull fur. "You've got to find these people, Ron."

Her husband squeezed her shoulder. "We will."

He was looking at her so tenderly that Harry had to turn away. He busied himself by pouring cups of tea, and as he put Hermione's before her, he asked, "How's Neville's grandmother doing?"

"Better, but she's still shaken. At least she's out of the hospital. But when Neville asked if she wanted to go back home to get anything, she couldn't stop crying. I went over and picked up her things ... including Aengus here." She gazed sadly at the cat. "She didn't even recognise him at first—he used to be black as pitch."

A chill ran through Harry as he looked at Hermione, his head echoing with her screams as she suffered Bellatrix's curse. Thankfully this terrible memory was interrupted by Ron asking, "Is Neville working on any leads?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not that I know of. He was pretty shaken himself. I mean, this is his grandmother. She's the only person he's got in the world anymore. Although," she smiled slightly, "there _may_ be something going on between Neville and Luna Lovegood. She'd been at the hospital with them all morning, and Gran will be staying with her and her dad while Neville's working."

"Sure you're not just playing matchmaker again?" Ron teased, darting a quick look at their friend. Over the years, Harry had been paired up with any number of Hermione's work colleagues—all high-achieving witches whose eyes went blank when he told them he was an assistant shopkeeper at a pet store. He'd not yet gotten up the nerve to tell Hermione that, even if they didn't turn up their noses at him, he still wouldn't be interested. "Does Neville have anything to say about this?"

"I think they'd be good together."

Hermione looked surprised by Harry's statement, but he'd meant it. He hadn't thought about the odd little witch for years, but picturing her with Neville made perfect sense. "Neville would ground her, and she'd help him to forget."

Hermione was smiling at him with a look of pride; Harry hoped this didn't mean she was planning another match for him. But Ron wasn't so impressed. "Whatever," he scoffed. "Maybe the two of you can go into matchmaking together. Anyway, supper's ready."

Hermione smiled at her husband as he slid a bowl of stew in front of her. Harry sat down beside her, laughing as she tried to push Aengus to the floor. The cat immediately pressed against her legs, refusing to budge. "I guess he feels safer there," Harry noted.

"He does, poor thing," Hermione sighed as she charmed her hands clean. Then she froze, suddenly remembering something important. "Oh goodness, I nearly forgot, Neville did mention that Gran closed her Gringotts account not two weeks ago. She said she didn't trust the goblins anymore. She had every single thing she owned hidden in that house."

Ron spun around so quickly that his soup sloshed from his bowl onto the floor. "How could you forget that?" When Harry looked at him, completely befuddled by his outburst, Ron explained, "Some of the recent burglaries have been after people closed their Gringotts accounts. It's like they know who's keeping their valuables at home—it means it's got to be an inside job."

Hermione nodded. "That's what Neville thought too. But he said the goblins won't even give the Ministry details of who has closed accounts. Do you really think they'd help the robbers?"

"Sure they would," Ron shrugged, "if there was enough in it for them."

But Harry wasn't so sure. He remembered his dealings with the goblin at Shell cottage, his open contempt for "wizarding masters," and Bill Weasley's warnings about goblin notions of payment and repayment. If Griphook was typical of the other goblins, it would take something very powerful to make them betray their stations. Or some _one_.

Someone as powerful as Voldemort once had been.

"Well, we'll look into it on Monday I'm sure. D'you need another beer, mate?"

Ron's question jerked him back to the present. "Oh, um, sure."

"So how've you been, Harry?" asked Hermione. "Anything exciting happen this week?"

"Yeah, tell her about the snake..."

They fell into their usual banter, which took them through dinner and well into the evening. Eventually they gathered around the cheerful fire in the sitting room. Aengus planted himself firmly on Hermione's lap while Ron and Harry crouched over the chessboard. It was much, much later that their conversation returned to the robberies.

"Ron, don't let me forget," Hermione said sleepily. "Neville wants the name of the warding company we used. I couldn't remember the name ... Avery and Crowe, was it? Something like that?"

"Avery and Crabbe," Ron said absently. "I think he was related to the Slytherin in our class, one of the ones who died."

Harry froze with his fingers just grazing the top of his knight. "Avery and Crabbe?" He hadn't heard the Death Eaters' names in years, yet they still made his blood run cold. " _They're_ running a security company?"

"Yeah," said Ron, "one of the many that've sprung up over the past year. It's hard to keep track of them all."

With a deep sense of foreboding, Harry asked, "Who are some of the others?"

"Oh, there's Allied Carrow, the Lestrange Brothers ... who else, Hermione?"

"Salus, that's the big one..." She let her book fall shut as she thought, then said, "Oh, Accio _Prophet_." The newspaper fluttered through the door and into her hand, and she handed it over to Harry. "Have a look at the classifieds. They all advertise in there."

Harry opened the broadsheet to see she was right—two full pages of adverts dotted the pages, featuring pictures of lockboxes and keys and cartoon figures dressed in striped prison outfits, and amidst them scrolling across the page like a theatre marquee:

**Don't get robbed ... get Rookwood.**

 **Allied Carrow Plc.: Keeping your family jewels in the family**

 **Walden's Wards & Watchers, Walden Macnair prop.**

 **The Lestrange Bros.: You want us on your side.**

The list went on and on: Antonin Dolohov, Yardley Yaxley, Nott & Son, all names that should have been on the roll call at Azkaban, not doing business—and thriving, from the sound of it—across Britain.

Harry's eye fell to the bottom of the page where, stretching across the entire width of the page, was the biggest advert of all. In impressive white letters on a black background, it read:

**It's your family's safety. Why choose anything less?  
SALUS SECURITIES  
Protecting Wizarding Families Since 1998**

In the corner of the ad was a small "W" with a circle surrounding it. It looked like the kind of brand you'd find on cows in old Muggle Westerns. "Do you know what this symbol is?" He handed the paper back to Hermione.

"That's the Order of Walpurgis. It's one of those old boy networks like the Freemasons—you know, secret handshakes and all. Was Arthur never invited to join, Ron?"

"Hmmm?" Ron advanced a pawn and then looked up from the board as if he was coming out from under the water. "Oh, Walpurgis? No, I don't think so. We were never the right sort, you know." Hermione rolled her eyes, but Ron just said, "It's your move, mate."

"Oh, um..." Harry had forgotten all about his strategy—if he'd ever really had one. He certainly hadn't gotten any better at Wizard's chess since leaving Hogwarts. And with the strange name of Walpurgis tickling some forgotten corner of his memory, it was even harder to concentrate on the game. He'd been about to move the knight, he remembered that, so he slid it into place now with hardly a second glance. Then he turned back to Hermione.

"So this Salus Securities," he asked warily, "you said they're the big one?"

She looked up from her book again, frowning. "Well, I'm not sure about _big_ , but I think they're the most successful. They were the original warding firm—they started before anybody even knew they _needed_ wards."

"Yeah," Ron chimed in, "And from what Roger's said, they're the ones inventing most of the new wards. The other companies just take their ideas and dress them up a bit." He slid his bishop across the board. "And check."

Harry hadn't seen that coming at all. He realised that he really needed to open his eyes and pay attention to what was right in front of his face. There was one rook open, and he swapped places quickly, then asked the question he somehow already knew the answer to. "It's the Malfoys, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. How'd you know?" asked Ron.

But who else could it be? It made sense ... as much as any of this made sense. The Death Eaters had cornered the home security industry and who else would be in the centre but the Malfoys. Who else would be capitalising on the misfortune of others?   
"Checkmate!"

Ron's glee, contained as he tried to be to be, roused him from his thoughts. As it did Hermione, who closed her book, stretching. "Okay, I need to go to bed, I'm bushed. Harry, you're staying over, right? The guest room's all made up for you." The guest room was always made up, and Harry had used it every Saturday night for nearly a year, but his friends always made an effort to invite him anyway. It made him feel good, as if they really wanted him there. Tonight, there was an additional reason for the invitation. "We're going to visit my parents tomorrow and they'd love to see you."

"Yes, Harry, stay over," Ron urged, with a little more insistence in his voice. And he knew just what temptations to offer Harry. "We can go flying over the ocean while they're visiting."

"That sounds great," Harry said, yawning when Hermione yawned again. "Guess it's bedtime for me, too."

He followed his friends up the stairs, said goodnight, and entered his cosy little room. It was the perfect mix of their joint tastes, with dried flower arrangements on the dresser and a Chudley Cannons poster on the closet door. A pair of Ron's pyjamas and a dressing gown were hanging on the hook behind the door. He slipped them on and got into bed, but now couldn't sleep. His mind racing, he got back up, slipped on the robe, and went out into the hall. Thanking Merlin that Ron was still in the washroom, he waited to ambush him when he came out.

"You all right, Harry?"

"Yeah, I was just wondering ... can I send out an owl?"

"Sure." Ron looked at him sleepily. "Is anything wrong?"

"No, I just forgot something I need to do."

"Yeah, there's quills and parchment downstairs in the kitchen sideboard. Just call Tobias from the back door, he'll come around."

"Thanks, Ron. Goodnight."

Harry padded downstairs and found everything he needed to write a letter. Except the words he wanted to write. Even the salutation was impossible.

 _Dear Malfoy,_

No, that didn't look right. He crossed out the "dear" so it just read "Malfoy," but that wasn't right either. He carefully tore off that bit of parchment and started again.

 _Mr Malfoy,_

 _I am inquiring about security services for my residence._

No, that didn't sound pressing enough. He tried for a third time.

 _Mr Malfoy,_

 _I am in urgent need of security services at my residence. No doubt you are quite busy, but based on our_

Our what? Our mutual hatred? Our rivalry? No, the Malfoy that left Hogwarts hadn't recognized any rivalry. _"He hardly even knew my name,"_ Harry reminded himself. He dipped the tip of his quill back into the ink and continued writing.

 _our past association at Hogwarts, I hoped that you might attend to my needs yourself. I will be at home on Monday._

How should he end it? Sincerely yours? With undying animosity, your enemy? At last he settled for, simply,

 _Harry Potter_

He scribbled the address of his Muggle flat after his name, read the letter over once more, then folded it carefully and slipped it into the envelope.

 _"Draco Malfoy"_ he wrote on the front, shuddering at the thought that Lucius might show up on his doorstep. Then he went to the kitchen door and whistled sharply.

"Tobias!"

The barn owl fluttered toward him, surprised to be called so late. Harry realised that, in his determination to get to the bottom of this, he'd forgotten all about the time. Malfoy would think it very strange to be getting a letter in the middle of the night. Harry debated holding it until morning, but he didn't want to give himself time to change his mind.

"Take this to Draco Malfoy at Malfoy Manor. Do you know where that is?" The owl ruffled his feathers as if insulted by the question. "Good boy," Harry said, rewarding him with an owl treat from the box next to the door.

Harry stared at the horizon until Tobias disappeared. Then he smashed his palm over half his face.

"Oh hell, what've I just done?"


	6. Nihil sub sole novum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Nihil sub sole novum**  
>  Nothing new under the sun_

See series notes in the [Prologue](http://lili-pad.insanejournal.com/2052.html) | Back to Harry didn't work on Mondays; therefore, they were usually his favourite day of the week. Morning would tiptoe in late, gently teasing him from the oblivion of sleep. He'd try to ignore the attention as long as possible, knowing that Noon would eventually arrive, doggedly insisting he rise. Eventually he would obey, and after a piping hot shower that drank up the last of the hot water in the tank, wander into the kitchen to find what Kreacher had set out for breakfast. Afternoon would be calling him out to play by that point, and Harry would see what adventures the two of them might find. At some point he'd be handed off to Evening, often without even being aware, usually in some pub where he'd enjoyed a few hours watching the Muggle sport of the day. Finally, Night would deposit him back to his flat, find him a late night snack, and tuck him carefully into bed.

Such was the ambitiousless life of Harry Potter, hero of young Colin Creevey and thorn in the side of the darkest wizard to ever live.

This day, however, would not go down in the history books as one of the good Mondays. His deep sleep was shattered by an uncomfortably bright light shining in his eyes. Peering through cracked fingers, Harry looked up to find Kreacher pulling back his drapes. "What are you doing?" Harry groaned. "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock," Kreacher replied brightly. "Master said last night that he was entertaining company, so Kreacher has taken the liberty to prepare all of Master's favourite foods."

Harry groaned louder, pulling his pillow back over his head. "'Malfoy,' I said. Not 'company.' And I'm not entertaining. He's coming on business."

"But Master has not had company for a long, long time. Not since that horrible Muggle tried to kill Kreacher ... although Kreacher deserved it, of course he did, Kreacher should have stayed hidden like Master asked..."

Even with his head covered and eyes shut tight, Harry could tell that the elf was looking for something with which to punish himself. He didn't think he could take that this early in the morning. "Kreacher, please don't hit yourself. It doesn't matter." It really didn't. The Muggle was just someone Harry had pulled at his local on one of those nights that seemed too long. He couldn't even remember the man's name now, but he did remember to avoid that bar. Obliviate would probably have been an easier solution, but Harry never could bring himself to use that spell, opting instead to scurry past the inviting pub door. "Really, that's all forgotten." Harry yawned into his pillow. "I think I need more sleep though."

"More sleep?" Kreacher sounded like he wasn't sure of the wisdom of this idea, but finally conceded. "Well, if that is what Master wishes, then he will sleep. Shall Kreacher close the drapes?" When Harry didn't answer, the elf continued, "Yes, it will help Master sleep better. Now Kreacher will continue preparing for Master Malfoy's visit."

Harry didn't relax until Kreacher had bustled out of the room and the door clicked shut behind him. As he let the pillow slide off his face, Harry decided that he could think of nothing worse than an overexcited house-elf.

Well, except maybe the reason the elf was so excited.

This brought a fresh round of pain. Second thoughts about the wisdom of his invitation started almost the moment the owl had taken it away. With Hermione's parents he'd tried to block it from his mind. Their comfortable Muggle home was exactly the type that Harry, as a young boy, had always imagined his friends would have, if he'd had friends. In other words, it was as far from Aunt Petunia's chintz and porcelain as could be. But even in their welcoming cottage, he was unable to shake the dread feeling of seeing all the Death Eaters names.

It hadn't been easy, these past five years. At first he'd been certain that Voldemort would swoop down and catch the wizarding world unaware. Then he'd been certain that the Obliviation spell, for that was surely what it was, would wear off, as they eventually did. Even Mnemone Radford, the most talented Obliviator the Ministry had ever had, could only contain a memory for a short time. That was usually sufficient; memories faded on their own, and hazy thoughts that surfaced in dreams were usually discounted as just that. But as weeks passed, then months, then years, and no one remembered a thing, Harry'd had to wonder, _"Could they be right?"_

As much as he hated this thought, he learned to live as if it was true. He learned to temper his speech, avoiding the subjects that would earn him cautious stares or pitying looks. He stopped reading the newspapers; the Ministry's machinations did nothing but bore him, and he knew Ron and Hermione would give him the highlights anyway. And more and more, he moved among Muggles who had never been bothered one way or another about who Harry Potter was. He became a very ordinary man.

But deep inside, he knew he'd been waiting for this peace to be shattered. And an industry made up entirely of Death Eaters was a sure sign that it had. He had to find out what was going on.

Harry punched his pillow. Damn Kreacher and his over-eagerness. Damn the Death Eaters and their plotting. And damn Malfoy because ... well, it was enough that he was Malfoy. Harry was wide awake now, with no chance of escaping back to sleep, and angrily he kicked the covers off. "Kreacher!"

There was no response. Harry sat up, pinching the sleep from his eye, and called again. "Kreacher?"

This time he heard a 'crack' and the house-elf appeared right beside his bed. He wore a strangely guilty expression. "Yes, Master? What does Harry Potter require of Kreacher?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Where were you?"

The house-elf seemed to shrivel before his suspicion. "Kreacher was only wanting to please Master. Kreacher was only wanting to show young Master Malfoy that Master is a good host, the best host. Kreacher does not want to cause Master to lose face."

His double-speak was always confusing, but this early in the morning it was impossibly annoying. "What did you do, Kreacher?"

Kreacher hung his head, reluctantly turning his huge eyes up to look at Harry. "Kreacher was visiting Lubby at Malfoy Manor to find out what young Master Malfoy prefers to eat. Lubby gave Kreacher a list of things he likes."

"Oh, Kreacher," Harry sighed, "I told you, Malfoy's coming here on business. You don't have to serve him anything."

"But Master must serve something," Kreacher replied, as shocked as if Harry had suggested Kreacher kill Malfoy as soon as he walked through the door. "It is Kreacher's responsibility to show that Master Harry Potter is the perfect host. Kreacher cannot let Master down."

The elf was so insistent that Harry knew he couldn't win this argument, save by ordering Kreacher to stay out of the flat during Malfoy's visit. He rubbed his face in his hands and then looked at Kreacher. "Fine, you can make whatever you li--" Then, realising what he'd just said, he quickly added, "Hang on … what exactly _does_ Malfoy like?"

"Oh, young Master Malfoy has exquisite taste," Kreacher boasted. "Lubby says he enjoys caviar, fugu fish, plums in port wine, foie gras, pheasant…"

"No, no, no!" Harry stopped him, imagining his tiny dining table collapsing under the weight of Malfoy's luxurious palate. "You are not making any of that for him—I absolutely forbid it."

Kreacher looked utterly broken-hearted, and when he bowed low and said, "Yes, Master," in a choked voice, Harry took pity.

"Doesn't Malfoy like anything _normal_? Some kind of sandwiches, maybe, or some dessert?"

Kreacher thought for a second, then brightened. "Lubby said that he likes lemon tart."

"Fine," said Harry. "You can make lemon tart for Malfoy."

"Oh, thank you, Master. Kreacher will make the best lemon tart that Master Malfoy has ever had," the elf gushed. "And Master Harry Potter will be the best host, Kreacher will make sure of it."

"I'm sure you will," Harry said with a pained smile. "Now can you go? I need to shower. Oh, and Kreacher," Harry added, suddenly remembering the reason he'd called the elf in the first place, "can you get me a lot of newspapers, say the past three or four months at least? I'd like to catch up on the news today."

"Certainly, Kreacher will have them waiting after Master's bath."

"Thank you, Kreacher."

Harry waited until the elf Disapparated before shaking his head vigorously. He'd never been woken up before to discuss Malfoy's dining preferences. And he hoped he never would be again.

Harry should have known better than to expect Malfoy at a reasonable hour, but when three o'clock came, then half three, then four, still with no sign of him, Harry was starting to get angry. He knew this was an odd reaction. Yesterday he'd wished he could go back in time and withdraw his invitation. Now the thought that Malfoy couldn't be bothered to see him—or even to owl that he couldn't make it—nagged him like a missing tooth.

Kreacher was being especially bothersome too. The flat was too small for the elf to carry on his work unnoticed—for once Harry almost wished they were back at Grimmauld Place—and even when it was as tidy as it could possibly be, he still seemed to lurk. When he noticed the elf's drooping ears and the downcast eyes, Harry wondered if he was disappointed that Malfoy wasn't going to show.

He didn't ask, though. He rarely talked to Kreacher; although the house-elf wasn't a deep thinker, his meanderings were usually too convoluted for Harry to follow. Kreacher's age seemed to be truly catching up with him; he seemed to mix the past and the present, often referring to his beloved Mrs. Black as if she was still alive, and Harry knew he returned often to visit her portrait. But he'd been a loyal servant to Harry, even following him to this Muggle flat despite his unmasked disdain at its non-functioning fireplace and its size that he thought insufficient for someone of his master's stature. To tell the truth, Harry wasn't sure how he'd have managed without the house-elf. He knew this didn't please Hermione—even in this world, S.P.E.W. was a cause near and dear to her heart—but Harry didn't think the elf would appreciate being given his freedom. He did, however, beam whenever Harry offered any gratitude. To cheer him up now, Harry said, "You were brilliant getting the newspapers, Kreacher. First rate job."

Kreacher's drooped ears immediately sprung to attention. "Master said he wanted a lot, and Kreacher wanted to make sure they were sufficient for Master's needs. Kreacher hopes that Master thinks there are enough. Kreacher can find more if Master wants…"

"Oh, I definitely think there are enough," Harry assured him quickly. Every surface in the main room of his flat was stacked with newspapers. He'd forgotten that the _Prophet_ had both morning and evening editions, and Kreacher had seen fit to get both versions going back at least six months. He'd also picked up the lesser-read _Wizarding World Weekly_ plus a goodly amount of the _Quibbler_ ; the latter had made Harry think of Luna, and then Neville and his gran, and had reminded him of why he'd wanted the newspapers in the first place.

If Harry had wanted an article explaining the rise of the security firms, he would have been sorely disappointed. But what he did find was enough to keep him occupied as he waited for Malfoy. There wasn't one single thing he could put his finger on, just unrelated bits of news that made him feel increasingly uneasy. For one thing, the _Prophet_ had reported each and every attack on a magical person. They were admittedly brutal; the thieves seemed to relish the terror they inspired as much as the treasure they could steal. At least, that's how Deborrah Mason, the _Prophet_ 's designated crime reporter, presented them. Each account of torture and degradation was written in the most lurid detail, and Harry was certain that if she hadn't been there to witness these acts herself, then Deborrah Mason had the most terribly vivid imagination he'd ever encountered.

Alongside these, Harry was struck by the noticeable lack of any arrests or even potential suspects. It was one thing to hear from Ron that the Aurors were at a complete loss; it was quite another to feel the vague sense of helpless that stirred as he read about this unchecked wave of terror.

Not that the Ministry of Magic was silent. No, Minister Thicknesse was unceasingly vocal about the need for vigilance in these troubled times. It was the kind of rhetoric that Uncle Vernon would have appreciated, jam-packed with words like order and discipline and sacrifice. The Ministry didn't seem to be sacrificing much, though. Buried at the bottom of the article was the mention that the Auror ranks had more than doubled in the years since they left Hogwarts, followed by another piece praising the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for implementing a new Auror division "in response to public demand." Harry remembered Ron mentioning something about that, about it being a kind of "elite" branch. Ron's beef had simply been that they acted like they were above the rest. But as he scoured the issues more carefully, Harry noted that _were_ above the rest. This independent division had been given increasingly broad powers with each decree that Pius Thickness enacted. These decrees enabled them to search homes at will and recover anything they thought might be used as evidence. Wizards and witches could be detained at will, too, although the Minister made assurances that this measure would be used only in extreme cases. Fidelius charms were outlawed, as were any wards that compromised the ability of these Aurors to gain entry to a residence.

Pius Thicknesse insisted that these measures were necessary to "untie their hands" so they could "do whatever it took to halt this vicious attack on wizarding society and our way of life." The wording didn't sit well with Harry. As far as he could tell, the break-ins in warded homes and in the Diagon streets suggested that magical beings were responsible. Considering his memories of the war, it might be that he was overly sensitive to demonising the Muggle world. He was fairly certain that no one else would connect the Minister's statements with the newspaper's historical series on Muggle Britain's anti-witchcraft legislation. But still, it gave him a wary feeling that he couldn't shake.

"Master is looking distressed," said Kreacher, the worry in his voice shaking Harry from his suspicious thoughts. "Perhaps he has been reading too long?"

"Maybe so," Harry agreed. "It's a lot to take in." He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his fingers across his eyelids as he asked the question he'd asked countless times before, "And I suppose you still don't remember Voldemort?"

The house-elf looked confused. "Master, I only remember…"

"You only remember what I remember, yes, Kreacher, I know." It was the same response as ever, and as ever it seemed to be said for Harry's benefit. The once-contrary house-elf had turned into the always obedient servant who, although he would never contradict Harry, would never give him anything more substantial than annoying acquiescence.

And yet Kreacher was still eager to please. "Would Master care for a cup of tea? Kreacher would be more than happy to prepare a light snack."

Feeling defeated, Harry gave in. "Yes, a cup of tea sounds good. And … and do you have any bubblegum pie?"

"Of course, Master! Kreacher will bring them straightaway, sir."

The elf looked so happy that Harry cursed Malfoy anew. It was nearly half five now and painfully clear that he wasn't going to bother showing up. All that work Kreacher had put into preparing for this visit and he'd stood them both up. Harry hoped to never see lemon tarts again.

He cast the _Prophet_ to the side and reached for the latest edition of the _Quibbler_ , hoping for some more amusing if not more accurate accounts of recent events. True to form, Mr Lovegood had filled his paper with his own unique take on current events. Issues of security seemed paramount here too, with articles on natural wards using a concoction of dried carnations and marjoram, and extensive numerology charts advising the best days to venture down Knockturn Alley. And unlike the mainstream paper, Harry noticed that the _Quibbler_ had turned into an activist mouthpiece. The paper reported on the most recent demonstrations, the lawsuits being brought against Gringotts by the victims of the robberies, and to Harry's interest, a petition to appoint a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, a position that had been vacant ever since the Carrows had joined the more lucrative world of home security.

Harry was searching for more news of Hogwarts when he heard a sharp rap at the door.

Malfoy? Would he really be here, this late?

Apparently Kreacher thought so. He Apparated in with a pop, not carrying a tea tray as Harry expected but just to gather up the newspapers that were spread around the room. He only missed the _Quibbler_ in Harry's hand; Harry tossed it onto the coffee table and reached for his wand.

A pass of his wand over the doorway revealed that it was indeed Draco Malfoy outside. He had the same features—Harry would surely have recognised him on the street—but where as a boy his nose had been too pointed, his chin too sharp, they seemed to fit the man he'd become. His hair was still so light as to be almost white, but he wore it longer now, down to his shoulders, and straight as threads of corn silk. His lips were set in a straight line, expressionless; Harry knew they would pinch into a sneer as soon as he opened the door. He'd invited Malfoy here to answer his questions, though, not to resurrect old spite, and after a day of reading he had a whole lot more he wanted to know. Resolving to not let his old nemesis slither out of any answers, Harry cleared his throat and cracked the door.

"Hello, Malfoy. Glad you could stop by."

The corner of his visitor's lip quirked upwards. Harry was caught out by the almost-smile instead of the expected sneer. "Hello, _Potter_ ," Malfoy replied, putting an amused stress on the name. Harry realised it wasn't an expressionless face he'd seen; rather, it was one trying to rein in amusement as he gave Harry a once-over. His efforts seemed to fail as he stood there, waiting, and then finally grinned mischievously. "So are you going to invite me in then?"

"Oh," stuttered Harry, thoroughly embarrassed, "yes, please come in." As Malfoy brushed past, a fragment of memory shot through Harry's head, something about not inviting vampires into one's home. He shoved the thought away and followed his guest into the flat. "Can I take your coat?"

Malfoy shrugged imperiously out of his long leather coat, far too heavy for the mild autumn day, but then Harry had always figured fashion was more important to the Slytherin. He was dressed all in black underneath, with an untucked silk shirt and slacks that looked like they'd been airbrushed over his narrow frame. As Malfoy handed over his coat, Harry saw he was wearing expensive-looking silver cufflinks embossed with a heavy M. This subtle reminder of class reminded Harry of his hosting duties.

"Please, have a seat. Can I get you some tea?"

His guest was busy surveying the room, seemingly oblivious to the question. Harry felt oddly undressed as his possessions were catalogued and, he was sure, found wanting in his old enemy's esteem. Harry couldn't pretend to possess any real sense of style in either dress or décor. He'd surrounded himself with items picked up on his travels; some were valuable, but most were just things that intrigued him. And like his clothes, his furniture was chosen for comfort, not looks. It wasn't shabby, but it certainly couldn't measure up to the standard of Malfoy Manor.

Feeling slightly annoyed, Harry called for Kreacher. The house-elf's appearance was enough to shake Malfoy from his inspection; as he eyed the elf with surprise, Harry repeated, "Tea, Malfoy?"

"Sure, okay, if you're having some."

Harry sat and motioned for his guest to sit on the sofa opposite him. "Some tea, please, Kreacher, and some of the snacks you've prepared."

Kreacher bowed low and Disapparated, leaving Malfoy looking at him in amazement. "You have a house-elf?" _"Here?"_ was unspoken, but Harry heard it loud and clear. He wasn't sure whether to feel smug or defensive in the face of the other man's surprise. "I inherited him from my godfather," he explained in the most minimal terms possible as a tray appeared beside him, bearing a pot of tea, a slice of bubblegum pie, and the biggest lemon tart Harry had ever seen. "Sugar?"

"No, just a little milk."

Harry handed him the tea and the lemon tart. He caught the smile that spread across Malfoy's face and he didn't think it was because he was so happy about the pastry. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Malfoy was laughing at him. And determined not to care, in typical Gryffindor fashion Harry dove headfirst into the reason for the meeting.

"I'm glad you could stop by," Harry began; he silently added, _"Even if it is nearly six o'clock, after I waited all day for you."_

"Well, how could I resist such a charming invitation?" Malfoy said wryly. Definitely laughing at him, Harry decided, so he barrelled on.

"I've been reading about the recent attacks…" Harry started, faltering when Malfoy's eye landed on the issue of the _Quibbler_ still on his coffee table. Harry cursed Kreacher for not getting rid of it with the rest. "And, well," he went on, "I'd like to find out more about your security services."

Malfoy's eyebrow shot up high across his forehead. "You really want to ward this place? Whyever for?"

The arrogant tone made Harry bristle. His enemy hadn't changed one whit—he was still the conceited bastard who'd looked down his nose at everything Harry had, at everything Harry did. And Harry hated it just as much as he had that day in Madam Malkins' when the not-yet-Slytherin boy first scorned him. "What? You think I don't have anything worth stealing?" he demanded to know, clenching his fists. "You have to be a Malfoy to be worth robbing?"

"Hang on, Potter, that's not what I meant at all." His guest looked seriously aggrieved, so Harry gave him a chance to explain. "You've got a lot of valuables here. That charmed picture box from Slovenia would fetch a fortune at Borgin & Burkes, and that carved gryphon—you would have a gryphon, wouldn't you?—looks to be about twelfth century." Harry's astonishment must've shown on his face, for Malfoy quickly added, "Don't look so excited, Potter. They're nice enough, but it's not like I want to move in with you."

Harry looked aghast. "No … no, of course not," he stuttered. But he couldn't explain the odd sense of pride he'd felt when Malfoy commended his treasures. "I … I'm just surprised that you knew all that."

Draco shrugged as if it was nothing. "Mother spent the entire summer after fifth year dragging me through ancient castles in France. They're chocker-block with gryphons like yours."

Harry imagined why Narcissa Malfoy might have wanted to escape England that summer, with a husband in Azkaban and Voldemort breathing down her neck, but he found it harder to picture the young Death Eater-in-training absorbing the local culture. He forced his attention away from that irreconcilable image and back to the matter at hand. "So why aren't they worth protecting then?"

"They are!" Malfoy insisted. "It's just … well, you have a house-elf, for one thing."

Harry frowned at the thought of Kreacher withstanding the kind of villains who had attacked Gran Neville. "He's hundreds of years old. Do you really think he could fend off a burglary?"

Malfoy shrugged. "It's hard to say. Elves have some remarkable powers, Harry. I think you'd be surprised at some of the things they can do."

It couldn't possibly be any more surprising than hearing his name on his enemy's tongue. It took Harry a second to recover enough to ask, "You said 'one thing,' Malfoy. What else?"

The man chuckled to himself, his blond hair swaying as he gently shook his head. "Erebus, I can't believe I'm suggesting you don't get wards. Father will have my head." He looked back up at Harry. "Do you understand how warding works?"

"Sure I do," Harry answered. He did, in principle; the subject had been one of the many he'd crammed in those last weeks before his N.E.W.T.s. He just hadn't had any call to use the knowledge since. But then Malfoy cocked his chin just the way Snape used to when he was waiting for an answer, and Harry felt a strange compulsion to go on. "It's like a big net made of charmed threads. Anybody can pass out of it, but only certain people can pass in."

Malfoy half-nodded, not completely happy with Harry's answer but still with more approval than Harry had ever gotten from Snape. "That's how they used to be done, yes. But when I was repairing the wards at the Manor I started playing around with shrinking potions. I eventually came up with a warding system that … well, instead of a net, think of … of a burlap sack." He locked his long fingers together to demonstrate. "The individual wards are compacted and then woven, with holes too small for any corporeal being to slip through."

Harry couldn't help but be impressed. Combining charms and potions was a complex and dangerous art—one that he'd never attempted himself—but he knew it was responsible for some of the strongest magic. If Malfoy had managed it, it meant he was a more powerful wizard than Harry had ever thought.

"Now of course they're even more advanced," Malfoy continued, "with each ward doubling back and weaving into the others—more like knitting. It makes the whole system stronger."

That fit what Neville had said about the burglars' wards, the ones that had knotted back together as soon as they were severed. But it still didn't explain why Malfoy didn't think it would work here. "Okay, so what does that have to do with my flat?"

"You're in a Muggle apartment building." Malfoy said it as if it explained everything, but when Harry shook his head in confusion, he continued with just a note of irritation. "The primary wards are put on the main entrance of the building—always have been, that's just the nature of wards. Magic is concentrated in the moment someone steps from the world outside into the protected space. That was fine with the old wards—they could be set wide enough so that non-magical people could get through, but not anymore."

Harry did remember something about the importance of entrance and egress in warding; it'd been more of the tedious facts he thought he'd never have a use for. And this explanation made sense, but… "What about Squibs?" he asked, suspecting he'd found the flaw in Malfoy's reasoning. "How can they get through these new wards?"

"Wards are always tied to the will of their creator," Malfoy explained simply, as if he were instructing a child. "If you've granted entry to a Squib—or an animal or a Muggle even—the wards will always respect that. But you want to try doing that in a building like this, with all sorts of people coming and going? You'd have to know every single person intimately." Malfoy seemed to suppress a shudder at the thought.

"Surely you've warded flats before?" Harry asked.

"Sure, we just did Fortuna Towers," Malfoy confirmed, "but all its inhabitants are wizards. Wards are why wizards don't live in Muggle buildings—one of the reasons anyway. Not saying it can't be done, just … maybe you should think about moving." He looked around the cosy flat. "I'm surprised you live here anyway."

"I _like_ it here," Harry said, his defences rising again. "I guess I'll just use carnations and marjoram like the _Quibbler_ says."

"Hey, don't knock carnations and marjoram. Some of the most powerful anti-theft potions use them. In fact…" Malfoy tucked his hair behind his left ear, his fingers pulling the long strand down to the very end. Harry found himself entranced by the gesture; he could almost see the man's thoughts churning. "I think you may've just given me an idea, Harry."

The look Malfoy gave him was so bright—radiant, even—that Harry felt his cheeks warm. It was a strange feeling, made even stranger by the fact that it was Malfoy causing it. He hid it by reaching for his cup of tea. Just as he brought it to his lips he asked, "So you don't want to sell me a security system. Why are you here then?"

"Honestly?" Malfoy smirked, staring Harry right in the eye. "I thought you were asking me out."

Harry nearly choked on his tea. Amidst the sputtering and the certain feeling that his eyes were going to fall out of his head, he managed to get out a single word. "What?!"

"Well, what was I supposed to think?" Malfoy didn't look the least bit apologetic; nor did he try to save Harry from what was surely imminent death by choking. And actually, Harry was quite glad the other man kept his distance. "You didn't contact our office," he went on, "and you can see for yourself that I'm no salesman. Not to mention, you sent an owl to the Manor. My father loved getting woken up with my post in the middle of the night, by the way."

All true points—and Harry cringed at the thought of Lucius reading his letter—but they didn't add up. "But … why would you think I was asking you out?"

His guest grinned, not seeming the least bit embarrassed. "Just wishful thinking, I suppose."

If Harry had been drinking tea, he would have choked a second time. Instead, as soon as he could stop his mouth from hanging open, he asked, "You think people just owl you out of the blue, asking you out?"

His question made Malfoy smirk. "It wouldn't be the first time. Normally they don't request my 'services' through my father, though."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. This conversation was veering wildly out of his control, unstable as the Weasley's Ford Anglia. To regain some measure of control he said, in a decidedly firm voice, "Trust me, Malfoy, I wasn't asking you out."

"Fair enough." He didn't seem at all bothered either way, which discomfited Harry even more, and he didn't want to examine that too closely. "I just didn't think you really invited me here to talk about wards."

And fair enough, he hadn't.

"I _was_ curious about how your security systems work," Harry admitted, "but you're right, I wasn't really looking to buy one."

"That's a relief," grinned Malfoy. "In that case, I didn't lose a sale."

Harry couldn't help grinning back. It was awfully hard to remember that this was the same person who'd bullied him through school, who'd dressed as a Dementor to terrorise him, who'd tried to kill his headmaster. He seemed so guileless now—and Harry was having a little trouble believing this could all be an act. It inspired him to respond with as much candour. "No, you didn't lose a sale. But I was hoping you could tell me about some of the other companies. There seem to be an awful lot of them now."

Malfoy steepled his fingers and tapped them together. "Ah, I see, dismantling the competition. I might be able to do that." He eyed Harry thoughtfully. "I might even _enjoy_ doing that … on one condition."

 _"Here it comes,"_ Harry thought. _"An oath to secrecy I bet. Hopefully just a vow not to tell the Aurors, I could get around that somehow, I'm sure, maybe talk to Hermione instead. But what if it's something more—if it's something involving Voldemort, well…"_ Harry realised he didn't know what he'd do then. Finding where Voldemort was might be worth a hefty price … as would even finding proof of his existence. He swallowed hard and asked, "What's the condition?"

"That we continue this discussion over drinks in a pub."

Oh. Not what he'd expected.

His expression must have given away his surprise, because Malfoy laughed out loud. "Well, since you're not asking me out, I figured I'd have to do it."

"Drinks?" Harry finally croaked out.

"And maybe some supper. Really, Potter, bubblegum pie? Are you twelve?" But there was no malice in his voice. In fact, he had the same teasing tone as Ron when he'd discovered that Harry still collected wizard cards.

But it wasn't the same—this was Draco Malfoy, long his enemy, and this could all be a disingenuous attempt to draw him out. He imagined himself in a dark Knockturn Alley pub surrounded by Death Eaters, all slightly aged but none the less evil.

Then again, Harry hadn't exactly been living incognito for all these years. If Voldemort had wanted to find him, it wouldn't have been difficult.

But there was no reason to make it easy on them.

"Fine," he agreed, "but I'm picking the place."

"Paranoid as ever," Malfoy laughed. "It's good to see some things never change."

But things had changed, and of all the changes in his world that had ever befallen him, perhaps none was as great as the fact that, as he left his flat, his old enemy fell into step beside him.


	7. Inter Pocula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Inter pocula**  
>  Over their cups_

It didn't take long to get to Harry's local. Soon they were squeezed like sardines between punters who smelled of sardines. Malfoy turned his nose up in disgust. "Nice place, Potter," he snarled as a stocky red-faced man sloshed lager onto his leather coat. "I can definitely see why you wouldn't want to leave this neighbourhood." He muttered a quick Scourgify to clean off the beer, then leaned in closer. "Next time I pick the place."

"Who says there'll be a next time," Harry retorted sharply, handing Malfoy his beer and edging back as much as he could from the source of the smell.

Malfoy just flashed him a knowing smirk before calling out to the barkeep. "Two Bensons, please." He reached out his hand to Harry, curling his fingers to make a grabbing motion. "Money, Potter."

"So much for you asking me out," Harry sniffed, rolling his eyes even as he handed over two pounds.

"So much for you picking a place where my Galleons are no good. Ah, here we go." He took the cigarettes from the bartender and handed over the coin, pocketing the change he got in return.

Harry eyed him warily. "I don't smoke."

"Neither do I," Malfoy winked. Holding the cigarettes low and sliding his wand down his arm, just as he had done to clean his coat, he whispered, "Refresco aeris." Their tips began to glow and smoke wisped upwards, but instead of bitter tar Harry breathed in the scent of a fresh summer day, just after a cooling rain. He smiled, soundly impressed.

"Hey, that's a nice spell."

Malfoy accepted the compliment graciously as he handed one of the cigarettes to Harry. "I'll tell Pansy you said so. She invented it for the Muggle clubs in Soho. The smoke's so thick you can't see, but that girl loves to dance."

The image of the Slytherin girl enjoying herself amidst a crowd of Muggles was too much for Harry. Noting his look of confusion, Malfoy shot him an inquisitive look. Harry hesitated, not particularly wanting to set off his defences prematurely. "I always thought you and Parkinson were..." he started, but broke off mid-sentence, somewhat shocked at himself. Never in a million years did he imagine he'd be inquiring after Draco Malfoy's sex life.

But Malfoy didn't seem to think the question inappropriate. "We tried, but it didn't work out." He held Harry's eyes with a knowing look. "I'm guessing you know how these things go?"

And yes, Harry did know, too well. His own Hogwarts romances had been doomed from the start. It was only after he left school that he understood why—why, after recovering from his initial fascination with Cho, he'd quickly lost interest. Why, when he saw Ginny with Dean, he'd never felt any real sense of loss. Why, when his own friends had paired off, he'd never felt a pang of jealousy. But he wasn't eager to share any of that with Malfoy. Instead he asked, "At least you're still friends, right?"

The Slytherin started to nod, but froze with his chin up, his eyes fixed on a spot over Harry's shoulder. "C'mon, Potter," he said, picking up his beer. He whispered something as he brushed past; curious, Harry followed him through the crowded pub. In the very back, tucked away in the corner, was an empty table—one that he was surprised was still empty by the time they got there.

"Let me guess—another of Parkinson's tricks?"

Malfoy grinned as he nabbed one of the low stools. "Hey, I just held the table. Believe me, you don't want to see what she does to clear one. Oh, the stories I could tell you." He discreetly Scourgified the sticky tabletop before setting his drink down. "There was this one time we couldn't even get up to the bar, so she made it look like Blaise had these…" His hands froze in the shape of claws around his face, his long fingers clutching at whatever horrors Pansy had cooked up to drive off the Muggles. But he lowered them, smiling slyly at Harry. "But no, you'd rather know all the dirty secrets of the warding world, don't you?"

As curious as he was to hear about the Slytherins' night out, and even more eager to see his nemesis so animated, Harry was nonetheless relieved that Malfoy wasn't beating around the bush. "I do," he admitted. " How do you manage to stay in business, all doing the same thing?"

Malfoy looked more than a little disappointed that Harry had jumped right in, but he recovered quickly. "Well," he shrugged, "security's a going concern, you know. It's not like any of us are hurting for business." He leaned closer, staring at Harry intently as he lowered his voice. "Just look around next time you're in Diagon Alley, Potter. People are scared. If a rag like the _Quibbler_ 's picked up on it, then you know it's too big to miss. And the Auror Division's a joke. They haven't caught a single soul!"

Harry opened his mouth to defend the Aurors—well, to defend Ron—but he found he couldn't. Malfoy was right; the Aurors hadn't had a single success. "So I'll grant that people are worried," he agreed. "But I don't see how so many companies can stay in business. Why don't they all just come to your company?"

"Oh, Merlin, you sound like my father." The jest made Harry blanch, and he forced his focus to the cigarettes smouldering in the ashtray, trying to ground himself by breathing in the clean air. Malfoy didn't notice anything amiss. "You should hear him go on about the people who choose the Carrows because they 'specialise' in old houses. As if witches live in anything _but_ old houses. And don't get him started on Uncle Rodolphus. They're just cheap imitations, as far as he's concerned."

Harry pushed his glasses up the brow of his nose. He was trying hard not to let these once-terrifying names affect him, but hearing them thrown about so casually made his gut clench. "So … so these other firms, they imitate your company's wards then?"

"They imitate _my_ wards, yes," Malfoy replied smugly, taking a drink from his pint glass.

Strangely, even despite the man's proud smile, Harry found the smugness wasn't as offensive as it once was. Or maybe he was still so dazed by the thought of wizards voluntarily inviting Death Eaters into their homes that Malfoy's arrogance couldn't compare. "You started the company then?"

"Oh, no, that was Father. He'd grown tired of politics and thought it'd be an interesting venture, building a company. It all just fell into place, really. You know there were all those attacks during our last year of school…" Harry nodded. Not that he remembered, exactly, but he did recall their Defence Against the Dark Arts final and his surprise at having to disarm a mugger. "Mother was nervous, so I started mucking about with our wards. At first Father thought it was just something to keep me busy until I got into the Ministry." Malfoy smiled again, and this time Harry could see the relief shining from his eyes. "Fortunately they worked, or I'd be stuck in some office pushing paper."

Malfoy finished, and it was only a few seconds later that Harry realised he'd been paying more attention to the expression on the other man's face than to his words. Harry had seen that smile many times, but always it had been tinted with malice or scorn. Now … now it was genuine, filling his whole face. And it didn't disappear as he looked at Harry now; instead it brightened a bit, curious, as if curious what Harry might say next.

"So … so what _do_ you do?" Harry finally remembered to ask.

"I cast the wards," Malfoy explained. "And when I have time, I invent new ones. That's the interesting part of it, the spells and the potions. I stay away from the business end."

"Yeah," said Harry, his enemy's incongruous smile still on his mind, "I remember you were really into potions in school."

"You remember that, do you?"

For a few seconds he scrutinized Harry, those pale eyes that had always seemed so empty dancing over Harry's face. It was a disconcerting feeling, seeing such levity where he remembered only malice and scorn, and not one he would have expected tonight. Hoping to change the subject, Harry said, "It's probably good you stay away from the business anyway. You're rather terrible at sales, you know."

Such a statement would have sent the boy he knew flying into an unholy rage, but the man across from him now just laughed. "This is true. I never could convince anyone that they needed something they didn't. That's Father's job."

Malfoy spun the dregs of ale in the bottom of his glass before tipping his head back and draining it. Harry stared a second too long at the perfect arc of Malfoy's throat, noticing how the pale skin shone like a crescent moon against the shadows of the bar. Enthralled by its glow, Harry didn't look away fast enough, and Malfoy caught him staring. As soon as he noticed, Harry dropped his gaze to his glass. "And … and these other companies, they use your wards?"

Malfoy seemed to study him again, a glint of amusement sparkling in his light eyes. Then he pushed his empty glass towards Harry. "If you want me to keep talking, I'm going to need another drink."

Harry was starting to think that another beer might not be such a good idea. Sure, he might be getting some of the answers he wanted, but he wasn't sure where this conversation was headed. Not to mention that he was staring at Malfoy's _throat_. "Malfoy…"

But before he could protest, his companion clutched his hands around his neck. "Can't talk … parched."

Malfoy rocked to the side, tipping his stool a bit too far, and then scrambled to hold himself up with the table and the wall. He even made an undignified squeaking sound that was so unexpected, so playful, that it shattered everything Harry thought he knew about his old nemesis. He couldn't help his laugh, a full-out laugh that felt like it swept through his every cell. That earned him a mock-glare from Malfoy, but the gleam in those grey eyes took out its sting.

"Drink, Potter. Now."

Harry was still chuckling as he made his way to the bar, much to his disbelief. He was having drinks with Malfoy. In a Muggle pub. Even stranger, he was enjoying himself! It wasn't any surprise to find that Malfoy was still demanding and smug. What Harry hadn't expected was that there might be a legitimate reason for his arrogance, or that he'd have any hint of self-deprecation. The Malfoy he'd known would never have laughed at himself like that. Hell, the Malfoy he'd known would never have set foot in a place like this. The fact that he was this comfortable in Harry's run-down local was more than a little unnerving.

But not as unnerving as the fact that Harry had been staring at his throat.

As he waited for the bartender to draw his pints, that troubling thought returned to haunt him. _"It's been a while,"_ Harry reassured himself, _"that's all it is. It's been a while since I've been out with anyone attractive. Not that I'm 'out' with Malfoy, we're just talking, this is just … educational. And not that he's 'attractive' either. Just because he happens to be my type … that doesn't mean a thing."_ But he was Harry's type, to the letter. His taste in men could not be more different than the girls he'd dated in school. Once he'd let himself follow his real desires, he'd tended towards men with a bit of height on him, slim frames hanging off wide shoulders, and light hair, worn long and perfectly straight, so different than Harry's own, and looking so soft that he yearned to feel the fine threads between his fingers. Add to that an almost unearthly paleness that made his knees feel weak and Harry would have said he'd found the perfect man. But that couldn't in a million years be Malfoy.

Not the Malfoy who was smirking at him as he made his way back with two pints and packets of crisps caught between his lips. No, certainly not the Malfoy who snatched up the cheese and onion and greedily tore into it before Harry even sat down.

"You're welcome," Harry said reproachfully.

"Oh, yes, thank you, Potter, for so generously providing this handful of over-processed salt and reconstituted likeness of potato. If I wasn't so famished I'd get down and kiss your feet."

No, definitely not this Malfoy.

"So," Harry said, after rolling his eyes, "I was asking if all the companies work togeth–"

"No, I don't think so." Malfoy shook his head vigorously. "I've been answering your questions. Now it's my turn."

"But you haven't told me all I want to know–" Harry protested, but he was interrupted.

"And that's just what _I_ want to know. Why are you so curious about all this?"

Harry crossed his arms, feeling a bit like a petulant child but not really caring. "I didn't come here to buy your drinks and be interrogated."

"One for one, then," Malfoy said. "You answer one of my questions and I'll answer one of yours."

"Fine," agreed Harry. He snapped up the other packet of crisps when he saw Malfoy reaching for it; he didn't really like how the tart vinegar bit into his teeth, but he wasn't about to give away another concession. "What do you want to know?"

"Exactly what I asked before. Why are you so curious?"

Harry bit the inside of his lip as he considered what to answer. He obviously couldn't reveal the root of his suspicion, how these companies were bound by their association with Voldemort. Instead he decided to offer half the truth. "I'd never really noticed that this was such a business until Ron and Hermione bought a system. I always thought people did their own warding, so I just wanted to understand how you did it."

Malfoy looked wholly unconvinced, but Harry decided to ignore that and push on through with his question before he was called out. "Right, it's your turn. Are all the companies connected? I mean, are you all using the same wards?"

Before answering, Malfoy took a long drink of beer, and Harry wondered if he'd call his bluff as soon as the glass was lowered. But at the last minute, Malfoy seemed to shrug and give in. "For the most part, yeah. Other firms have their own methods, and I don't know if they use the same compaction that we do, but I'd bet they do—it's no secret anymore—and they're all linked into the Eye, of course. Ours are still the best, though."

"How come?"

"Because I developed them," Draco smirked, swirling the beer in his glass. "And it's my go. Are you seeing anybody?"

Harry almost choked on his drink. That was the last question he'd been expecting. "N– no…"

Malfoy nodded, as is this confirmed what he already knew. "And you are gay, right?"

Now Harry was genuinely choking, and Draco just grinned, seeming perfectly happy to let him expire. "That's … none of your business," he finally stammered out.

"And that answers my question," beamed Malfoy. "Sorry, Potter, that was two. You get a free one then."

In that moment, Harry hated his old nemesis as much as he ever had—hated his know-it-all smirk and his eyes shining in amusement, hated him for putting Harry on the spot like this, for asking questions Malfoy knew would unsettle him, questions that the Slytherin had no right to ask. _"But he's gay too,”_ Harry reminded himself. _"He already admitted that, more or less … that is, if I can believe him."_ And believing Malfoy had never come easily to him. _"But why would he care anyway?"_ Harry didn't even want to entertain the possible reasons. Instead he watched the smoke curl as his hatred dissipated, bringing him back to the present, to the reason he was there. To his memory of seeing the little W on all the adverts. "There's this organization that all the companies are in…"

"The Order of Walpurgis? I think that's more coincidence than anything."

"A coincidence?" Harry had never believed in coincidences.

"Sure. Order members all run in the same circle, so it makes sense that they'd get involved in the same kinds of work." Malfoy shrugged. "People talk, you know, it happens all the time—didn't you ever wonder why hairdressers are always alchemists?"

But Harry wasn't sure it was the same thing at all. "What's this Order do? Hermione said it was like the Freemasons…"

"Yes, and like the Masons I'd be expunged if I shared our secrets. Don't worry, Potter, it's not anything nefarious—it's not as if we're out to take over the world."

Harry wasn't so sure. "Can you at least tell me if you know anything about the violence? You said security was a going concern. You wouldn't know who's behind the attacks, would you?"

A flash of resentment raced across Draco's features, bringing his face alive as he strained to rein in his fury. "Are you insinuating that, since we benefit from them, we might be _responsible_?

"No," Harry rushed to say, although he was thinking, _"Yes, as a matter of fact."_ But the blaze of anger on the other man's face held his tongue.

It seemed that Malfoy was fighting to hold his tongue too. After a moment he said in a disturbingly even tone, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt for not knowing how offensive that question is, especially to someone who's sworn to defend the lives and livelihoods of magical persons. And yes, Potter, that is one of the secrets of the Order."

Harry gnawed the inside of his lip as he considered how to answer. He wished that he hadn't revealed the root of his suspicion, but he wasn't sure if it was because he wouldn't get any further with his questions or because he didn't want Malfoy mad at him. He decided that at the very least, he might be able to make the other man understand the urgency of his questions. "I'm sorry … I didn't mean anything by that. It's just that there was a break-in a few days ago. The burglars cast some wards while they were in there and it took the Aurors far too long to break through." And left Gran Longbottom defenceless for far too long. "It was Neville Longbottom's grandmother. She was … it was horrible."

Malfoy was silent. Harry thought he might still be upset, but he wasn't sure what else to say. He looked up at the man and was shocked to see the anger was gone, leaving in its place a picture of troubled sympathy.

"I'm really sorry to hear that. There are terrible things happening, you don't even know…" His voice faded, then came back with the assertiveness that Harry had grown used to over the course of their evening. "Neville Longbottom, I remember him. He did quite a lot with plants, right?"

"Yeah, that's right," Harry said, surprised the Slytherin remembered. "He's an Auror now."

"That's a shame."

Harry wasn't expecting that. "What do you mean by that?

"Some fields have a measure of dignity—they're worth studying just for the sake of studying them. Potions, Herbology, those types of things. Those people are involved in a vocation. That's where I expected someone like Neville to end up. Not carrying out orders because somebody else tells him to."

"It's a valuable job," protested Harry, feeling very much like Hermione as he added, "It's very important to society."

Malfoy held up his hands in surrender. "I'm not saying it's not, Harry. I'm just saying it doesn't have any intrinsic value. Look," he said, leaning in as if he really wanted Harry to understand, "a herbologist does his work because he loves plants. He's not looking for wealth or fame or even any power. But somebody who enforces laws just because they like to enforce things is little more than a thug."

Harry felt disarmed by Malfoy's closeness, and even more by the thought that he might have a point; several of Ron's workmates did have a bit of a bullying streak. But truth of his words aside, Harry was most unsettled by the way his name had been used so casually, as if they were friends engaged in a normal debate. " _Malfoy_ ", he said pointedly to regain his ground, "have you ever thought that Aurors enforce laws because they believe in how society ought to be?"

"I'm sure some do. I suspect others are just thugs." He shrugged. "Don't mind me. I'm told that I'm overly hard on others because I didn't follow my own vocation. Millicent says I project, the silly witch." He nudged his empty glass across the table towards Harry. "Shall I go up this time?"

Harry looked down at his half-full pint. "Sure."

"I need money." The grabby hand was back.

Satisfied with the notes that Harry passed over, Draco turned and made his way to the bar. Much to his embarrassment, Harry realized that he rather enjoyed the sight of Malfoy walking away. Even in this packed room he moved with the same natural grace that Harry had grudgingly admired on the Quidditch pitch so many years ago.

Once he disappeared into the crowd, Harry turned his mind back to their conversation. Not just to what he'd learned about the security firms, although he did have a better idea of how the wards worked now, even if he wasn't sure how that would help him. No, much more intriguing was how Malfoy was challenging him. From his indignation about harming anyone to his talk of vocations and their worth, Harry was being pushed in a way he hadn't been in a long time. Much as he loved Ron and Hermione, he knew them so well that there were few surprises. Mr Critswold wasn't one for thought-provoking discussions, little deeper than Kreacher. But Malfoy…

Harry was having, against all expectations, a very good time.

"What're you smiling for?"

The beer that landed in front of him caught him unawares. Without thinking Harry answered, "Just feels a bit odd, being out with you like this."

"Good-odd or bad-odd?" He looked like he really wanted to know.

"Different-odd." When Malfoy's brow crinkled, Harry added, "With a distinct lean towards good-odd."

Looking pleased with that answer, Draco replied, "Fair enough. And it's my turn now." He straddled the stool as he came out with, "So why did you think I was going to murder everyone at Hogwarts?"

Harry felt his face suddenly go warm. "Well, you know how kids can be."

The Slytherin raised a pale eyebrow, indicating that he didn't know and that perhaps Harry should explain. But Harry sat silently sipping his pint, wondering when the pub's radiators had fired up. The other man sat quietly too, staring into his drink, and at first Harry thought he would wait him out. But at last Malfoy said, in a rather distant voice, "You were convinced that I was your enemy, Harry, and I've always wondered why. I really think I deserve an answer."

So that was it then. There was so much that Harry could have said, and so much that he couldn't say, and even more that he didn't want to say. He'd only just realised that he was enjoying the company of this familiar stranger; whatever he answered, that was bound to change. And why should it sting to know that the whole reason Malfoy had asked him out was just to rake up their old animosity?

At last, he decided to be honest, offering the answer that was truly at the root of their hostility. "You hated Muggles."

Malfoy's mouth dropped open; Harry saw that he wasn't expecting that answer. "Hate Muggles?" He shook his head firmly. "I don't know where you come off thinking that, Potter. I mean, I don't trust them, and I certainly wouldn't want to marry one, but I hardly hate them."

"But that's just it!" insisted Harry. "You despised the Muggle-borns most—'Mudbloods,' you called them."

Malfoy visibly flinched at the word. "I don't believe I've _ever_ called anybody that, Potter. And I'm certain that _you_ never heard me if I did. But you're right, to a point. I didn't like Muggle-borns. I still don't."

Whether he really wanted to know the answer or just wanted to keep Malfoy talking he wasn't sure, but Harry had to ask, "Why?"

"I think they're bad for the magical community."

"Bad for the community?" Harry repeated in shock. "How can you say that? Some of the best witches I know are Muggle-born."

"Sure, there are some good ones," Malfoy conceded, "but they're the exception. For every one that excels are three who fall behind. You can see it just in the O.W.L. results—Muggle-borns consistently score lower than pure-blood witches and wizards."

"That's hard to believe."

"You can look it up for yourself," Malfoy countered, and Harry made a mental note to ask Hermione later. "Not that you could expect anything else. Really, it's not fair to them. You know as well as I that a Muggle-born first year can't be expected to know what we learned in the decade before we ever started school."

"I think everybody in our year did well enough. I don't remember anybody being too far behind." Harry was about to add that he hadn't been raised with magic, but before he could get the words out Malfoy was off again.

"Well, see, that's why it hurts the community. The whole class gets held back so a few don't fall behind. I know you haven't forgotten how they babied us in our first flying lesson."

"I don't think being raised by Muggles has anything to do with how well you can fly," protested Harry. "Look at Barry Ryan. He's Muggle-born, and nobody flies like he does."

"He is? Really?" Malfoy seemed impressed that the star coach for England wasn't a pure-blood wizard, or that Harry knew that, or maybe a bit of both. "Okay, maybe flying isn't the best example." Harry was surprised by the concession, although his hackles reappeared a second later when Malfoy said, "But it doesn't even matter how good they are with magic. Their loyalties are always going to be divided, especially if they were raised only by Muggles."

"I was raised by Muggles," Harry blurted out.

"You were?" Malfoy started, almost dropping his pint glass. He sat it down extra carefully. "Did I know that?" Harry didn't want to speculate what Malfoy might remember, so he ended up just shrugging. The Slytherin smirked. "Well, you don't act like it. And I mean that as a compliment."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond, so he just countered Malfoy's other argument. "And it's not as if I have any loyalty to my aunt and uncle, but if I did, would it really matter? When would I ever have to choose one over the other?"

"Do you not remember anything from History of Magic, Potter? The Inquisition? Salem?" Malfoy's voice took on a terrible urgency. "Betty Parris' Muggle parents made her testify against her magic teacher? Or Helen Duncan…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Harry said, waving his hand. "Thrown in prison for séances, not fifty years ago."

"That's right—the Muggles were threatened by a witch who made Trelawney look like Nostradamus. Things are quiet these days, thanks be to the gods, but that's no reason not to be vigilant." He chuckled and shook his head. "I've been warding too long, apparently."

"Apparently so," agreed Harry. "But what would you do? Obliviate away their magic?"

"No, that would never work," Malfoy replied, as if he'd already thought this through. "Obliviation would prevent them _controlling_ their magic, but it wouldn't take it away. Besides, those spells don't last. No, there's nothing to be done with the ones now, we have to think of the future. Muggle-borns don't come out of nowhere—there's magical blood in their line somewhere."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the other man. "You're back on that blood purity thing, aren't you?"

"Back on?" Malfoy eyed him quizzically. "Well, I do think breeding with Muggles is the root of the problem, yes. It shouldn't be allowed."

"Allowed? You think the Ministry should regulate it?"

"Why not?" said the Slytherin, nonplussed. "They regulate everything else."

"So you're going to tell people who they can fall in love with? They can't control that."

Malfoy smiled. "Why Potter, I had no idea you were such a romantic!"

"I … I'm not," sputtered Harry. "I just don't think that would work."

"But you're not saying it's a bad thing to keep magic and Muggles separate."

"I am!" Harry insisted, irritated that he'd not made his point clearer. "It's fundamentally wrong. Magic or not, we're all the same inside—we're all human beings. If you'd separate us on those grounds you're no better than the racist Muggles, saying you're determined by skin colour. "

"But that's just a superficial difference," Malfoy said, shaking his head. "Magical beings are poles apart from Muggles. Why do you think we have our own hospitals? Our medicines don't work on Muggles, and vice versa. It just makes sense to keep us apart."

Harry was frustrated that, at least on the surface, Malfoy's arguments seemed to make sense. He knew they didn't, he knew deep down that they were wrong, but they were making him think hard to defend his beliefs. As frustrating as that was, it was also quite exhilarating to be challenged like this.

Malfoy looked exhilarated too. His eyes were shining brightly as he watched Harry, his gestures becoming livelier as they waded deeper into the debate. Harry wondered briefly what the young Slytherin would have looked like engaged in this kind of mental duel, but dismissed the thought quickly. He'd certainly have never had such a debate with his enemy of old—their wands would have been drawn and hexes thrown long ago. Was it simply age that had quickened Malfoy's mind and stilled his desire to strike out? Or was it the way history had diverged, creating this man who he could argue with and still respect?

"We have more similarities than differences, though," Harry finally said, smiling to himself when he saw his double-meaning. "I bet if you talked to any Muggle here, you'd find you had more in common with them than you think." Ignoring the other man's sceptical look, Harry continued, "And if I wanted to be with one of them … well, I don't think the Ministry or anybody else should have anything to say about it. That's my own business."

"It's your own business up to a point," conceded Malfoy. "But you said yourself that the Aurors enforce how society ought to be. I don't see that this is any different. I want our society to be strong. Your way sounds nice and politically correct—yes, I do keep up with Muggle news, Potter," he smirked, catching Harry's surprised look. "But your way means we keep diluting our blood. The more we do that, the weaker we'll be."

"But my way doesn't kill Muggles and Muggle-borns!" exclaimed Harry.

"I never said I wanted to kill them!" The Slytherin looked shocked. "I don't want to kill anybody! I just don't want to lose our magic." He cocked his head and studied Harry as if he'd just figured out something important. "Really, that was why we were enemies?"

Harry thought about it. There was more, much more. There were Voldemort and Lucius and Dumbledore. There were Madam Malkins and Buckbeak and the Hogwarts Express. There were "Potter Stinks" badges and "Weasley is Our King" taunts. But all of that felt like another lifetime, like long-buried childhoods. It seemed almost irrelevant to the men they'd both become.

"Yeah," he admitted a little bashfully, "that's basically it."

Malfoy made a funny huffing noise. "Potter, I believe that's got to be the single most ludicrous reason I've ever heard to be enemies. It's definitely not worth drawing wands over—does make for a good pub chat, though." His lips curled into an inviting smile that turned lascivious when his tongue slid out to lick the bottom one. "You know, I think we should do this more often."

Harry stared at the man who suddenly seemed closer than before. It wasn't that he didn't agree; it was more that Malfoy looked good, surprisingly good. When Harry nodded, uncertain of his voice, Malfoy lifted his hand and gently touched his fingers to Harry's cheek.

"In fact," Malfoy said, confusing Harry with the sultry tone his voice had taken, "I think we should do a lot more than this."

Before he knew what was happening, Harry found his lips pressed against Malfoy's. He gasped in surprise, only to find that he'd just granted an opening for a slick tongue to slip through. Harry reached out, thinking that he would push Malfoy back, but when his hand touched the smooth silk shirt, his resolve to escape crumbled. Shocked to discover that the Slytherin could kiss, Harry gave into the overwhelming temptation to just enjoy the feeling. He let his eyes drift closed, let his hand slide up the cloth, felt his fingers brush against strands of blond hair softer than silk.

It wasn't a very long kiss—it was in the middle of a crowded pub after all—but it was one that promised more. Harry felt Malfoy's lips curl into a smile before he pulled away, and he was left with his hand resting awkwardly on the other's shoulder. He dropped it to his side, willing the redness he felt heating his cheeks to disappear. Malfoy looked as pale as ever save for his lips, still smiling, flushed red and full. He dropped his hand to Harry's and squeezed it.

"Now, for the love of Merlin, will you please call me Draco?"

"Draco." The name felt strange on his tongue, and Harry wondered why that should be when his kiss had felt so comfortable there a few seconds before.

"That wasn't so hard, was it? Now I take it we're not enemies anymore, even if we mightn't agree on everything. If you're convinced we still are, I might just have to kiss you again, and I'd prefer to wait until we leave because that fellow standing by the lav's been eyeing us and I'd rather not give him a show."

If Harry had been paying attention, he would have noticed that Malfoy's rambling betrayed his nervousness. He might even have taken some pride in knowing that he was at least partly responsible for that nervousness. But as it was, his eyes were locked in horror on the hand that had entwined with his, at the faint coils imprinted on the pale skin of Malfoy's wrist. The Dark Mark, dormant now, but ready to ignite at any moment. _"It's just that Order, that stupid organisation,"_ Harry tried to reassure himself, but he knew it wasn't. That Order was an alliance of the Death Eaters; they might not remember who they were anymore, but Harry did. He could never forget it, no matter how much Malfoy seemed to have changed, no matter how many kisses he gave him.

"Of course, if you're really into that kind of thing, giving a show I mean, I could be up for that too." Malfoy hadn't stopped babbling yet, but his voice was becoming increasingly urgent, pressing Harry to respond.

"I can't do this." Harry pulled his hand away and leaned back, away from Malfoy. "I thought I could, but I just can't."

Malfoy's eyes blazed with hurt and confusion. Harry wanted more than anything to erase that look, but he knew that he could never say anything that would make Malfoy understand. It was better just to get out while he could, before things got any worse. He stood up and grabbed his jacket from the stool, trying not to look at Malfoy again. And wanting to avoid that, of course his eyes were drawn back to the pale man who sat there, glaring at him.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy."

The reply was cold and as bitter as Harry would have expected from the boy he knew all those years before.

"It's Draco."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betty Parris, along with her cousin Abigail Williams, sparked the Salem witch trials in 1692 when they accused Tituba, the African slave who had taught them to tell fortunes, of witchcraft. Helen Duncan was the last person imprisoned in the U.K. (in 1944) under Britain's Witchcraft Act of 1735.


	8. Ad Idem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Chapter Seven: Ad idem**  
>  Of the same mind_

Malfoy was an elephant.

This was what Harry decided as, over the next days, he tried not to think of that night at the pub. But the more he tried to forget it, the more Malfoy tugged on his memory.

It wasn't just his whirling thoughts that nagged at him—his confusion over that kiss (it shouldn't have been so good) or his embarrassment for fleeing like the damsel in some paperback romance (he shouldn't have been so rattled). No, it was more the little things that kept pulling him back.

Like at work when, while cleaning the bats' cage, Harry remembered the discreet Scourgify charms Malfoy used to clean their table. He performed the charm the same quiet way that Draco had done, sliding his wand up his sleeve just as Mr Critswold reappeared from the other room. "Finished already?" he asked, inspecting the corners of the pen for any missed spots and huffing a bit when he found nothing. "Well, there's still the bins that want doing..."

Or at the Blood Sport Thursday night when, watching the wizard-cast of a World Quidditch Cup qualifier, he heard someone praise the impressive flyers on the English team. "That's Barry Ryan's touch there," the spectator exclaimed in admiration. "You'd never know he weren't born to it!" And Harry remembered the look of surprise on Malfoy's face when he'd learned that the hero of the pitch was Muggle-born.

Harry was distraught to find that even his home wasn't safe. For days after Malfoy's visit Kreacher had seemed positively giddy, pleased that his master had attracted such a high-status guest and enthusing that this bode well for the future. He even asked several times when young Master Malfoy might return until Harry lost his temper and told him that Master Malfoy would never set foot in his flat again. Kreacher was quiet after that. But even in the silence, Harry's eyes kept returning to that picture box he'd bought off a gypsy in Ljubljana, at the gryphon decorating his mantle, and pictured Malfoy there in his room, admiring them.

A huge bloody elephant in glittering pink tulle with shiny ballet slippers on its feet.

But over time these thoughts faded. The week passed, then another, and on the next weekend Harry even returned to the same pub for a quick drink without feeling too uncomfortable.

Early the next week, Ron appeared at Critswold's Creatures. This was a little unusual—Ron and Mr Critswold shared an unfounded but mutual dislike—and Harry knew he only dropped in when there was a reason. Even if, like today, it seemed like he didn't want to talk about it.

"Is this the snake?" he asked, edging toward the front of the store, conveniently away from Mr Critswold. They'd just received a rare shipment of Vipertooth claws from Peru, and Harry knew his boss would be in the storeroom pricing them for a good while.

"Yes, this is Simbi." To the snake that coiled protectively around her egg, Harry hissed, "Don't be nervous. This is my friend Ron."

Ron twitched nervously, as he always did when Harry spoke Parseltongue. At least some things never changed. "When will the egg hatch, do you think?"

Harry turned to the cobra, admiring her rippling her coils as she relaxed. "Will it be today?" he asked. It was easier to ask like that; the snake had a very limited concept of time.

"Not today." She swayed back and forth as she answered. "Maybe tomorrow." Which by now Harry knew meant any day that wasn't today.

"She's not sure, but soon," he told Ron. "She's never hatched one before—they're always sold out from under her."

"That's sad. But he hasn't noticed this time?" Ron jerked his head in Mr Critswold's direction.

"Not yet. We've had a few close calls though." Harry studied Ron, who was eying the snake with a combination of fascination and fear. "But here, I know you didn't come about Simbi. What's up?"

Ron reddened, although he refused to look up. "Hermione wants to know..." His friend faltered, and Harry wondered if he would climb inside the aquarium with Simbi just to escape the reason for his visit. "That is, would it be okay if we ... okay with you, I mean, if…"

"Spit it out, Ron."

There was a moment's pause and then, "Hermione wants to set you up." The words poured out in a rush. "She's got this friend she wants you to meet, and she wants us to all go to dinner together tomorrow night. I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Harry felt bad—Ron looked as miserable as if he'd just asked Harry to chop off his right hand. Not for the first time Harry wished he had the courage to tell his best friend—both his friends—the truth. It would make things so much simpler. But maybe it wouldn't. It was bad enough being set up with Hermione's female friends. That was bearable because he knew they'd hold no attraction for him. The thought of her scouring her office for eligible men was just too much.

But on the other hand, a night out might help erase the memory of his last "date."

"Thursday sounds good. Where are we going?"

Surprised by Harry's quick assent, without the customary bargaining, it took a second or two for Ron to answer. "Pandora's—it's this trendy new place on Wyvern Way. Hermione's been pestering me to take her there ever since their review in the _Prophet_." He gaped at Harry. "You're really okay with this?"

"Why not?" Harry shrugged. "What time do you want me there?"

When Ron left ten minutes later, he still looked like he'd just been pardoned from a death sentence.

  


Ron had warned him that Pandora's was trendy, and he wasn't kidding. Harry was glad he'd changed into his nicest robes. Even so, as he stepped into the stylish lobby, all black and polished steel, he felt underdressed before the velvet-clad hostess. She led him through the doorway. Despite knowing it was only charmed as a waterfall Harry still flinched a little as he ducked under the flowing water. Ron and Hermione were already waiting in the crowded lounge on the other side.

"Harry!" exclaimed Hermione, throwing her arms around him. "Isn't this place posh? I've been trying to get reservations for two weeks now."

So she'd been planning this that long? Harry lifted an accusing eyebrow at Ron, who expertly dodged. "Hey, what do you know, there's Smasher..." He headed to the bar, leaving the others to follow, Hermione chattering every step of the way.

"I just know you and Aurora will hit it off, Harry. She was the year behind us in Hufflepuff. Now she's in the Magical Creatures Department. She keeps in touch with Hagrid, too. I can't wait for you to meet her!"

Harry nodded helplessly. He really had to hand it to her—despite failure after failure, Hermione never gave up, always thinking that this time she'd found his perfect girl.

Fortunately they caught up with Ron then and he wasn't forced to respond. Instead, he found himself jerked forward as Ron introduced him to one of the biggest men he'd ever seen. "Smasher, this is my friend Harry Potter. Smasher's a veteran with the Auror squad."

"You calling me old, Weasley?" Smasher slugged Ron's arm so hard he winced. "You know I could take you any time, any place. Good to meet you, Potter," he bellowed, his crushing handshake nearly cracking the bones in Harry's fingers. "Ah, and the lovely Mrs Weasley. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Smasher."

Harry stared at Hermione. She'd never allowed _anyone_ to call her by Ron's name, not even right after the wedding. But now she was smiling in pained politeness, just biting her tongue.

When Smasher began shoving patrons away to make room for them at the bar, Harry whispered, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she sighed softly. "Smasher's a good guy, really, and he looks after Ron. Just sometimes he can be..."

Glancing over to where Smasher was strong-arming a couple who didn't want to give up their seats, Harry remembered what Draco had said. "A bit of a bully?" he offered.

"Mmmm," she agreed. "Oh look, there's Aurora!"

Harry turned to see the blonde witch who'd just passed through the waterfall. He wasn't the only one whose head was turned. Harry had to admit that she was attractive. Nearly as tall as he was, she wore a fashionable black mini-robe, fitted in the front and flowing in the back, that showed off long legs that stretched to the ceiling. Her pale cheeks blossomed rosily as Hermione introduced her around, her blue eyes lingering extra-long on Harry. And despite knowing that he wasn't especially drawn to her, Harry felt his hackles rise when Smasher leered and said, "Sweetheart, if things don't work out with Potter you know where I'll be." Fortunately they were called to their table at that moment, sparing Harry from fighting for something he didn't particular want.

After this start, dinner proved to be very pleasant indeed. Hermione was in rare form, energetically recounting the latest magical catastrophe at the Ministry: a newly registered Animagus who'd gotten stuck as a Labrador retriever and reverted to his human form at the local pound. Aurora laughed with delight at Hermione's machinations to get him released. It turned out that she loved all animals, whether magical and not, and begged Hermione to let her talk to the Animagus about meeting the other dogs. She wanted to hear all about Harry's job, too, which she seemed to find much more interesting than he did. She was overjoyed when Harry mentioned Hagrid, and soon Ron and Hermione joined in swapping stories about the creatures they'd encountered at Hogwarts. When Harry told her how he'd seen the unicorn in the Forbidden Forest, he thought she was going to swoon.

Yes, it was all pleasant enough. Aurora was a lovely girl, there was no doubt about that; if he leaned that way he was sure he'd find her irresistible. As it was, his brain was on auto-pilot. It responded when it was needed, but otherwise lay dormant.

As they were finishing their main course, however, it pinged back to life. Ron mentioned that Defence Against the Dark Arts was being permanently discontinued at Hogwarts. Aurora agreed this was a smart decision. The class encouraged violence, she said, and wasn't that the root of all the terrible things that were happening these days?

Aurora tucked her hair behind her ear as she spoke, and for some reason the gesture made Harry think of Malfoy. He wondered what the man might make of that argument. He could almost see his eyes flashing brightly, primed for a vigorous debate, even hear his mocking voice: _"Are you joking, Potter? I suppose you'd stop flying lessons next, do away with all those nasty Quidditch falls."_ And Harry found himself craving the mental stimulation he'd felt that night in the pub. Unable to stop himself, he asked, "Are you a pure-blood witch, Aurora?"

She smiled with a pride that would've made Malfoy and his whole clan proud. "Why, yes, I am. The Kingsfords go way back, but my mother's side traces its lineage straight to Alberic Grunnion."

Hermione looked impressed, Ron drug his last bite of steak through the gravy, and Harry realised that he was out with Malfoy's dream girl. Knowing he was likely to set off his friends, and almost hoping for the controversy, he asked, "So how do you feel about Muggle-borns attending Hogwarts?"

Aurora blinked, confused. "What do you mean, what do I think?"

"I mean do you think they should be there?"

"Harry!" Hermione protested just as Aurora answered, "Well, of course. Where else would they be?"

Harry soldiered on despite Hermione's glare and the certain feeling that he'd pay for this later. "So you don't think they're holding the other students back?"

"I … I never really thought about it. I don't guess they're any different than anybody else…"

That wasn't the reaction he wanted. He wanted her to react. He _needed_ her to react. There had to be a fire in there somewhere, if only he could spark it. "But what about when you were young. Didn't you learn spells before Hogwarts?"

"Harry, what are you getting at?" Hermione demanded to know.

"I'm just curious," he explained, knowing the reason sounded weak.

She crossed her arms and said indignantly, "Well, I certainly don't remember holding back you or Ron!"

Ron squirmed uncomfortably and Aurora wouldn't look up, and Harry knew that he'd gotten a spark—just not from the person he'd intended. He awkwardly apologised, and Hermione hesitantly accepted.

Ron, bless his soul, stepped up by grabbing the dessert menu off a passing waiter and rhapsodising over the enchanted Bananas Foster that relit itself between each bite. Harry knew it was an act—Ron hated bananas—but it was enough to bring the conversation around to cheerier topics. Indeed, Harry thought his questions might have been forgotten until, as they were leaving Pandora's, Hermione pulled him aside. "What was that about earlier, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "It was nothing, really. I just wanted to see how she thought."

Hermione gave him a puzzled look, one that held a stern warning. "Well, you're just lucky she's so easygoing. Be nice to her."

"I will."

Once outside, Hermione and Ron Apparated, leaving Harry to see Aurora home. She said she lived nearby, and when she mentioned the street Harry recognised it as one of Diagon's more affluent neighbourhoods. They set off on foot, chatting pleasantly about nothing deeper than the weather. Harry was already thinking of what movie he'd throw on when he got home. _Men in Black_ , maybe, or he might be able to catch _Doctor Who_ on the Beeb…

"Well, here we are."

Harry snapped out of his thoughts to see a white marble portico towering impressively above him. "Nice place." Aurora stepped between the columns, and when she seemed to be waiting for Harry, he followed. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a small sticker on the glass beside the thick oak door: "Protected by Salus Securities." It figured.

He gestured to the sign. "So this place is pretty safe, I guess?"

"I guess so," Aurora shrugged. "I don't really think too much about it—I guess that's proof that it is, right?"

When Harry nodded, she smiled at him. "Would you like to come in? If you'd like another drink…"

"No, thanks, I need to be getting home. Got an early start tomorrow."

"All right, then. Well … I had a nice time."

"Um … I did too."

"Well, goodnight, Harry."

She smiled at him expectantly. Harry hated this moment, when he wasn't sure what he should be doing. She really was pretty, he thought. If only he could like her, things would be so much easier. He could be a good boyfriend, bringing home animals that she could look after. They'd live in a nice flat in a respectable part of town; when the time came, they'd have children that they'd raise as good little witches and wizards. Every so often they'd double-date with Ron and Hermione, and make pleasant conversation, and Hermione would be so pleased that he'd finally found someone.

And thank Merlin that he now knew himself well enough to know that could never, ever work.

"Goodnight, Aurora." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and then stepped back. He watched disappointment colour her face, then disappear as she steeled her features and let herself in.

Harry sighed heavily when the door slammed shut. It didn't take seeing the Malfoy company's sign there to remind him that he'd screwed up another date. Only this time, he'd figured out which one he wanted to try again.

The elephant was back, big and pink as ever.

  


"Why, you ... you're Harry Potter, yes?"

Harry turned away from the painted sailing ships to see the elderly white-haired woman staring as if he were a ghost. He studied her face, but for the life of him he couldn't think where they might have met. Perhaps one of his old neighbours from Privet Drive? Or someone from Aunt Petunia's garden club … although he couldn't imagine any of her acquaintances donning an apron in a Greenwich pub.

"Yes, I am. Do I know you?"

"No, you don't, but ..." She looked as if she was about to say more, but then shook her head. "It's no matter. Now, what can I get you?"

"Just a pint of bitter. I'm waiting for someone."

She left to pour his drink, and Harry didn't give her another thought. His thoughts were already well occupied, and had been for days now. First there was explaining that ill-fated date with Aurora Hermione. She'd taken it poorly and, exasperated, ended up begging Harry to figure out what it was he really wanted.

That had led his thoughts straight back to the elephant in the room. At first he remembered how Malfoy had made him laugh, made him think. It was the kind of connection he'd always craved, and that he'd never before found. Then his thoughts turned further back, to those days at Hogwarts he rarely let himself recall. Usually his memories were blackened with dismay and confusion. But as he let his thoughts ramble aimlessly through the events that had once given meaning to his life, he discovered something startling: Malfoy was always there. Not in good ways—Harry couldn't remember a single instance when the Slytherin had done something that ... well, that wasn't abhorrent. Nevertheless, his presence was a constant. Indeed, as he sifted through his memories, Harry had been a little shocked to discover that he'd spent more time thinking about the boy than he ever had about the girls he had dated, even when he was in the throes of crushes he was sure would never fade.

It was more than a little disturbing to find himself so attracted to someone who should have been his enemy. For years, Malfoy had represented everything that Harry had fought against ... everything he didn't want to become. But that battle was long gone. He'd once thought that he would always live in Voldemort's shadow, never able to have a normal life. Although erased in an instant, that belief was still holding him back. Because, truth be told, if not for that faded mark above the man's pale wrist, nothing could have prevented Harry from taking the other man home. Malfoy was everything that Harry wanted. He was sharp, funny, and as he'd demonstrated in the Muggle pub, a lot more adaptable than Harry would ever have imagined. Not to mention that he was really, really fit. He was exactly Harry's type.

And, in those rare seconds when he was being completely honest with himself, he realised that this wasn't entirely true. Malfoy— _Draco_ —was the one who'd set his type in the first place.

It took several days for Harry to decide that this long-forgotten battle was not going to keep him from what he wanted. It took even longer for Malfoy to respond to his owl post requesting another meeting. It would take him a good while still to hatch up a good excuse for why he couldn't see Ron and Hermione on Saturday night, but the Slytherin's message had left no room for debate:

  
_Greenwich Arms, eight o'clock Saturday—D.M._   


Which was where Harry was sitting when Malfoy swept in through the back door at a quarter past. He was dressed in wizard's robes, to Harry's surprise, and though they were of an elegant cut that would have been the height of fashion at any Diagon bistro, they looked out of place in the middle of Muggle Greenwich. Or perhaps not. As he'd made his way through the village, Harry had seen professors on the college green wearing robes, and there were even a few congregated here in the pub. Perhaps passersby would merely assume Malfoy was among them.

"You made it," Harry said as Draco slid onto the barstool beside him.

"I said I'd be here, didn't I?"

"Yeah," said Harry, not sure about revealing his relief, "but I wasn't sure whether you'd give me another chance."

"Yeah, I'm still not sure about that myself yet. But you did beg," replied Malfoy with the merest hint of a smile.

"I did not beg!"

"Potter, when you use 'please' three times in a single post, that's begging. Besides, where else would I be?" He nodded to the bartender who, without saying a word, began pouring his drink. When Harry raised his eyebrow, Malfoy explained, "It's my local, Potter. I live just around the corner."

"You don't live at the Manor?"

"With my parents? Oh, yes, that'd be fun." Malfoy rolled his eyes. "But really, why did you owl me?"

"I just wanted to see you again."

"Why? Are there more questions you want me to answer?"

Fair enough, thought Harry. That had been all he'd wanted from Malfoy last time. This time, though, this time was different. "No, no questions. Just ... well, for starters, an apology."

"And what exactly would you be apologising for, Potter?" The smile had all but disappeared. Now Draco's lips were pressed tightly together, a thin, hard line that promised no mercy.

"For leaving like I did. I shouldn't have done that."

Malfoy gave him a hard look, waiting. "Well then?"

"Well, what?"

"Are you going to apologise or not?"

"I was going to..." But now that he was being put on the spot, he didn't want to quite as much.

Malfoy studied him for another long minute, then shrugged as he turned to gaze into his beer. "No matter, Potter. It's nothing you need to apologise for anyway. I shouldn't have put you in that position." He glanced over at Harry. "So I'm sorry. No hard feelings?"

"No hard feelings," Harry repeated automatically. His insides were protesting that this wasn't how things were supposed to go, but Malfoy's mask of coolness had shaken him. He searched for a neutral topic and settled on the man and woman behind the bar, laughing with a customer at the far end. "So this is your local, then?"

"That's what I said."

"I never thought you'd have a Muggle pub as your local."

"Are you kidding me?" Malfoy stared as if he'd grown two heads. "You can't tell this isn't a Muggle pub? Just look around. Think those brooms by the door are just props? And that clock?" He pointed above the door where Harry had overlooked a cuckoo clock with several hands. "Sure, Muggles are welcome, but it's still a wizarding place. Just like all of Greenwich."

Astounded, Harry whispered, "I had no idea." Now that he looked around, he could see other signs of magic: the oversized hearth with the box he was sure contained Floo powder, acorns in the windowsills to dispel lightning, what looked like potions cups on display behind the bar. And he picked out several magical persons, with their eccentric dress that he'd just put down to being academics, from the mostly Muggle crowd.

Malfoy nodded his head toward the bartenders. "Ged and Sally there, they've been running this place for over a century, and Ged's family before that. You wouldn't believe the stories Sally can tell."

As if hearing her name, the elderly woman Harry had spoken with earlier looked over at them and smiled.

 _"She knew me!"_ Harry thought with a start. But as a witch, there were even more places that they could have met: the pet shop, the book store, she might even be one of the people that Ron or Hermione had introduced. Still, he had gotten the strangest feeling from her. If only he could remember...

Frowning still, he turned back, almost surprised to find Malfoy studying him again with an odd expression. Harry tried to refocus his attention. "So ... do you like living around here?"

The blond man blinked slowly, then completely ignored Harry's question. "Potter, seriously, what in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"I told you, I wanted to apologise. And I am really sorry." The words came out easily this time.

But they didn't seem to be enough. "And that's it? You could've just said that by owl."

"That's true, I could have." And Harry couldn't explain why he hadn't. The hard fact was that his life was inextricably linked with Malfoy's, and had been since he was eleven years old, but he could never tell him why. "But I really wanted to see you again ... Draco." Hearing his name, Malfoy visibly softened. He even grinned when Harry added, "Besides, you said next time you'd take me somewhere that would accept your Galleons. I take it they do here?"

"That they do, Harry. And it looks like you need another..."

From that point on, it was easy, just like Harry had hoped. Malfoy was again lively company, and soon had Harry holding his sides at his outrageous stories. Harry relaxed in turn, talking about his job and his friends and his life with a freedom that he rarely allowed himself. It was every bit as enjoyable as their last meeting, and more so, because this time Harry was sure it would end differently.

He grew more confident of this as, over the course of the evening, Draco moved closer and closer. He never let himself come right out and touch. Instead his hand would rest just a little too close to Harry's, his shoulder would lean just a little too heavily against Harry's, his face would come a little too near. It was exhilarating, and it was driving Harry a little crazy.

As payback, Harry started returning these not-touches. For an instant, as he reached for a coaster, he steadied himself by pressing his thigh against Malfoy's. When Malfoy was explaining how wards laced together, something that Harry knew he should pay attention to, his attention was instead focused on the heat—Draco's heat—radiating through the man's robes. While describing how Auror "Smasher" Jones had pushed the other patrons from the bar, Harry gripped his shoulder and held tighter than necessary. And after they'd both had enough drink to excuse any offence, Harry let his hand linger on the other man's arm. He didn't move it away, either, not even when Draco looked down pointedly at it and then cleared his throat.

"What are you playing at, Potter?"

At last, Harry had learned the power of names. He wasn't about to let Malfoy distance himself, not now. "I'm not playing, Draco," he said, tightening his fingers on the luxurious cloth. "I got spooked last time. I can't explain why, but I promise you, it won't happen again."

Draco studied him with that intensity that made Harry feel like a bug under a microscope. "In that case," he finally replied, "I think it's time we went back to my place."

Harry felt an irrepressible grin breaking across his face, and he was terribly happy to see it mirrored on Draco's. They slid off their stools together; Harry started toward the front door only to hear the other man call him back.

"We'll Apparate from the back garden. It's faster."

Harry smirked, but conceded that Malfoy had a point. They'd put this off for too long already. "Okay, I'll be there in a second—I just need to fetch my jacket."

Draco turned on his heel, brandishing his robes as if wrapping himself in midnight. A very distracting move, for Harry wanted nothing more than to forget his jacket and follow him into the night. But somehow he had the presence of mind to make his way to the coat rack beside the front door.

The witch who'd spoken to him earlier was there, wiping down an empty table. She looked up when he passed. "Goodnight to you, Harry Potter."

"Goodnight, Sally." He should have left it at that, but Harry could never bear a secret. Instead he had to ask, "Sally, how is it that you know me?"

"Oh, I cannot remember, I must have seen you somewhere." But a darting glance to his forehead betrayed that there was more to the story.

"No," he insisted, "you know me. You remember, don't you?"

The witch looked nervously around the pub. "I am an old woman, I remember lots of things."

"Do you remember Voldemort?"

Harry knew he'd chanced his arm, but he didn't expect the witch to flinch as if she'd been struck. "That's not a name that many would say," she whispered, "even if they were to remember."

"His name never frightened me. But the things he did..." The witch blanched and Harry stopped. "So you remember what he did, then, he and his Death Eaters."

"Terrible things," she whispered, as if her voice might summon them now. "And people as frightened as they are these days, and with good cause, too."

"But you didn't forget?"

"How could I?" She eased herself down into the chair, and for the first time Harry noticed how old she looked. "But everyone thought I was crazy whenever I mentioned the war. I thought I must be as well. Then, when my daughter married Ignatius MacNair, I had a horrible fit. They even threatened to pack me off to St. Mungo's. I knew I would never get out of there, so I ... I got better."

"You pretended, then?"

"I told them I was confused."

Harry nodded. He'd done the same thing with his friends. But this... "This proves we're not crazy, right? How would we both remember these things unless they really happened?"

"I cannot say. But Harry, even if these things did happen, the world has moved on. Look at you and Draco. I shouldn't imagine I would ever have seen you in here with Lucius Malfoy's boy back in those days."

 _"Draco!"_ He was outside waiting, and here was Harry, spooked again. He couldn't go with him now, now knowing what he knew now.

The witch noticed his distress. "You worry for Draco, don't you?"

Harry nodded. "He's a Death Eater."

She shook her head. "Harry, the things you used to know, they aren't how things are now. Whether real or not, there is no such thing as a Death Eater anymore. My daughter adores her father-in-law, and I have to remind myself that he is not the person I thought he was. And Draco ... well, I have known Draco for years and I've never had reason to fear him." She smiled kindly at him. "I hope you do not mind me asking, but have you been together long?"

"Together? No, not ... tonight, just tonight," stuttered Harry.

"Really?" The witch looked genuinely surprised. "Well, I should not've guessed that. You seem so well suited."

"But he was a Death Eater. And even if there's no such thing nowadays, won't he still think like that?"

Twisting her dishcloth, the witch carefully considered his question. At last she said, "I do not know how this happened, or why, and you've given me much to think about. But I can say this. A person may be bound by his past, but he can still change his future. That's true for you as well, Harry. And I see no reason that Draco's future should not be with you instead of He Who Must Not Be Named."

That made a great deal of sense. In just two meetings, he'd already learned that the Malfoy he knew in school was nothing like the man waiting for him now. He had already changed his future, becoming someone that Harry not only liked but also respected. _"And wanted,"_ he admitted to himself. And if Harry stopped fearing what had come before, perhaps he could change his future, too.

"Can I visit you again, Sally?"

"Of course you can, it'd be my pleasure." She glanced toward the back door with a sly smile. "But you had best go now. Draco's waiting."

Harry turned to see that Draco had come back into the pub. He hurried to meet him, taking his hand as they passed into the garden.

"Is anything wrong?"

"No," said Harry, leaning against Draco so they could apparate together. "No, I'm pretty sure everything's okay now."

  


Apparating always threw Harry off-balance. But that was nothing compared to how disorienting it was to come out of the spell in an unfamiliar flat, with Malfoy's arm curved tight around his waist, and with his lips immediately crushed in an urgent kiss. Harry felt dizzy enough to fall over, and probably would have save for the weight of the other's body pressing his back against the door. "Draco..." he gasped.

"Sorry," murmured Malfoy, pulling back a little and letting Harry stand on his own, though not releasing his grip on Harry's arms. "I just don't want you running out on me again."

"I'm not going anywhere," Harry reassured him, wincing as he added, "but there's a doorknob poking into my spine..."

Draco's eyes flew open wide and he spun Harry around, landing so his own back was against the wall. His hands crawled inside Harry's jacket and under the hem of his shirt, cool fingers travelling up the warm skin and pulling Harry closer. "That better?"

"Much." Harry tilted his head back and let himself melt into Malfoy's kiss. Bunching his fingers, he lifted the robe and slipped his hands beneath it. It was hot as fire inside, like heavy air atop a volcano, and eager to be burned Harry ran his palms over Draco's slim body.

Their kiss soon dissolved into moans as both men grappled for bare skin. Finally Draco took Harry's hand and said, "I've a better idea." He led him further into the flat, and when he pushed open the door to his bedroom for once Harry's mind didn't fly to the threats that awaited him with a Death Eater in the dark; they were too occupied with the thought of how Draco's hands would feel all over him. A whispered spell from Draco ignited a hundred candles around a huge four-poster bed, made up with a silver duvet that seemed spun from starlight. Harry was still drinking in the sight when Draco pushed his jacket onto the floor and began unbuttoning his shirt. Harry quickly responded by tugging the soft robes off Draco's shoulders and pressing him onto the bed.

"See? A much better idea," Draco nodded proudly, lifting his head to kiss Harry again.

"You're a genius."

Stretched out on the silken bedcovers, his mouth still covering Draco's, Harry tackled the old-style wizarding clothes that the Slytherin wore under his robe. Several of the boys in Gryffindor had worn them—Ron, too, until he'd outgrown the twins' hand-me-downs and switched to Muggle trousers—but Harry had never had occasion to undress someone wearing them before. Draco's fingernails scratching across his bare nipple didn't help his concentration any. After tugging uselessly at the intricately laces on the shirt, he gave up.

"I have no idea what I'm doing here."

Draco eyed him sceptically. "I really hope you're talking about the clothes, Potter," he drawled before casting the undressing spell. The laces slithered like snakes through the eyelets, leaving his trousers loose and a strip of pale skin gleaming between the folds of his linen shirt. "Need any more help?" he asked mockingly.

Harry pushed aside the linen and, enchanted with the birch-white hair gracing Draco's breastbone, replied absently, "No, I can manage from here, thanks."

Malfoy's answering smirk evaporated when Harry's hand slipped into his loosened trousers. Kisses descended, teeth nipped their way across pale skin, and when Harry's lips slid down Draco's length until they were buried in the silvery thatch of hair, the man's enthusiastic groans confirmed that Harry was indeed managing quite well.

"My stars, Potter, you do know what you're doing," he finally gasped, tugging Harry back up by his unruly hair. Draco kissed him hard then, sucking his own spilled seed from Harry's tongue so forcefully that Harry squirmed against his tightening jeans. Draco took notice and quickly peeled them off, casting them aside as he stretched on top of Harry. The feel of their skin pressed together almost overwhelmed Harry's senses, Draco's hand on his flesh providing the most exquisite friction he'd ever felt. Too soon Harry came, completely unravelled, only to be further undone by the sight of Malfoy above him, sucking the sticky mess from his palm. Illuminated by the candles' shimmering flames, Harry imagined this must be how a fallen angel must look.

He realised he'd been staring too long when Draco caught his eye and grinned. "Glad you stuck around this time, Harry?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Hardly. Here, hold still..."

Draco's quick cleaning spell dried Harry; he repeated it on himself and then erupted with the widest yawn that Harry had ever seen. That was it, the signal that it was time for Harry to make himself scarce. He'd seen it more times than he could count, and he'd used it himself on occasion. He knew he wasn't meant to take it personally. It just meant that both parties had gotten what they'd come for; now sated, they could go their separate ways with never a thought for the other. Making that message even clearer, Draco tugged down the edge of the silver duvet and slipped underneath, sinking deep into the plush pillows.

 _"Well,"_ Harry thought, _"at least there's some light still, I won't be fumbling for my clothes in the dark."_ His jeans, in fact, were still on the bed, one leg coiled around the far post. He reached for them and had one foot tucked through when he felt a tight grip on his elbow.

"What in the name of Morpheus do you think you're doing?"

Malfoy pulled him back, glowering with betrayal. His glare softened just a bit when Harry stretched out alongside him, but he didn't let loose of Harry's arm.

"I always hate this part," Harry confessed. "I never know what to do next." He reached out to touch Draco's hair, the fine strands sluicing like streams of water through his fingers. "Aren't I supposed to leave now?"

"No," replied Draco, sleepily nudging against Harry's hand like a cat wanting its whiskers scratched. Then he threw his arm over Harry and pinned him to the bed. "I don't think I want you going anywhere for a long time."

Harry kicked his jeans to the floor and slid under the bed covers, into the expanse of heat that Draco seemed to radiate. As he drifted off with the candles still faintly glowing, his last thought was that, from this point on, his future was going to be very different.


	9. Certum Est, Quia Impossibile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Certum est, quia impossibile**  
>  It is certain, because it is impossible._

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Keeping one dishtowel spinning on the plates while directing the pans to put themselves away, Ron spared a dubious eye for his wife. "Oh, I don't know. It just seems like something's on your mind."

"You mean about Harry? No."

"Okay." He levitated the last clean plate on top of the others and, with a quick wand flick, shut the cupboard door. "In that case, then I reckon I'll go up to bed..."

"It's just that..."

When she faltered he smiled, knowing the dam was about to burst. "Well?"

"I just don't understand why he didn't tell us."

So this was what had kept her unusually quiet ever since Harry and Draco said their goodbyes. "I don't think he was keeping anything from us. They said they only started going out a few weeks ago."

"No, no, it's not that. I don't care about that. But that he's gay." She slumped into the kitchen chair and rested her chin in her hand. "Did he think we'd mind?"

Ron shrugged. "Maybe he just didn't think it was important. It's not that big a deal—lots of wizards are gay."

"But it _is_ a big deal for Muggles. And Harry still spends most of his time in the Muggle world."

"Well, maybe that's why he didn't want to say anything then."

"But to us? Did he think he couldn't trust us?" She dropped her forehead into her palms. "And I can't believe I tried to set him up so many times."

Ron bit his lip as he nodded. He didn't need to remind Hermione that Harry had hated those occasions. Instead, he rubbed her shoulder gently. "At least now you know why none of them worked out."

She groaned.

"Hey, it's okay," Ron quickly assured her. "He seems pretty happy now."

"Yeah, he does," she admitted, patting his hand. "I'm still worried about him, though."

"Worried?" He sank into the chair beside her. "What's to worry about?"

"I'm just not sure about Draco. Harry's ... he's different, Ron. You know how he's been since his breakdown. I was just so glad when he came back home and we could keep an eye on him, and now..."

"And now it looks like Draco can help keep an eye on him."

"Do you think he will?" Hermione looked very sceptical. "I'm not sure I like him. He seems awfully opinionated."

Ron smirked, but there was kindness behind it. "Sounds like someone else I know."

Narrowing her eyes, she retorted, "You just like him because he's getting Harry on his broom again."

"That may be true," he conceded. It had been nice to see the gleam on Harry's face when he and Draco had arrived for dinner, their hair askew and faces flushed after the flight from London. "But I do think they'll be good for each other."

"Did you not see any signs about this at all?"

"About Harry being gay?" He shook his head. "I should have, I suppose. I just figured he was doing a turn in the Knock."

At first Hermione looked puzzled, then her eyes grew wide as she recognised the allusion to Knockturn Alley's red-light district.

"Besides," Ron continued, "it's not like he hid it from us, once he had something to tell. He seemed awfully eager to bring Draco over."

Ron watched the creases in Hermione's face run through their familiar pattern, frustration replaced first with understanding and then resolve. So he wasn't surprised when she said, "We really should be supportive, shouldn't we? Do you think there's a book on this?"

He laughed. " _So Your Best Friend's a Gay Wizard_? If not, I’m sure you can write one."

She took his hand, smiling. "And you don't mind this at all?"

Ron shook his head. "I really don't. As long as I don't have to see them naked together." He shuddered exaggeratedly. "I can't think of _anything_ more horrid."

Harry had decided that there was nothing in the world he liked more than seeing Draco naked. A few things came close: Malfoy flying, his lean body melded with the shape of the broomstick ... Malfoy mid-stride an impassioned debate, with tongue sharp as the bite of a whip and mercurial eyes dancing ... Malfoy sleeping, the bedcovers pulled up to his chin, the soft rise and fall of his breath balancing the peace on his face...

But none of that compared to how he looked now, now when he was decidedly _Draco_ —for he couldn't be _Malfoy_ when he was straddling Harry's lap and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, lowering himself onto Harry's cock. Nothing else came close to this sight, with Draco's chest glowing from the sheen of sweat and his expression caught somewhere between pleasure and pain. He looked almost fragile, like fine bone china that could shatter into a million pieces in the wrong hands.

But Harry's hands could never do him wrong. They worshipped Draco's body, cradling the perfect arc of his back as the man finished his descent. Now it was Harry who felt vulnerable, sheathed completely inside Draco, at the mercy of the sensations surging through him as they moved together. He pulled his lover closer, pressing kisses into the scar bisecting his chest, grazing his delicious pink nipple with his teeth, making Draco groan in delight.

The groan deepened when Harry wrapped his hand around Draco's width, his glide matching their rhythm, hastening it, edging them both toward the finish. Tilting Harry's face up for a deep kiss, Draco's snowy hair cascaded down, engulfing them both in its glow. Harry's senses ran together like quicksilver; he saw his lover's muffled words, tasted the shimmering halo surrounding them, smelled the shadows in the curve of his neck. And when Draco speared himself even deeper than before, Harry almost surrendered to the intense jolt of pleasure that spiked from his groin.

"I won't last long," he warned.

"I'll hex you into tomorrow if you come before me."

Heeding the threat he knew was only partly idle, Harry fought back the sensation, concentrating instead on the slick skin filling his hand. He twisted his grip, his fingers curling tighter around the hood, and Draco rewarded him with a shudder that Harry felt all the way to his toes. "Don't stop," he begged needlessly, for Harry had no intention of stopping. His hips rose to breach Draco, his palm slid fast, his jaw clenched against the climax inexorably building. Harry was so intent on the other man that he was taken by surprise when Draco clenched tight around him and heavy spurts of liquid fell on his chest. Covered in his lover's sweat and seed, Harry thrust deep inside, once, twice, Draco's channel so tight now that it stole Harry's breath away. One more push and he himself shattered into a million pieces, clutching the heaving body collapsed on top of him.

Neither man spoke for long minutes. A peaceful quiet settled over the room, broken only by their pants and Harry's whispered cleaning spell. Draco fell to the far side of the bed, seemingly paralysed, but his arm stretched out across Harry's chest.

Harry turned his head to gaze at Draco's profile, baffled again by the idea that he had ever found this man's appearance hateful. The chin he'd thought too pointed, the nose he'd thought too sharp, the pale eyes that looked lifeless ... now he couldn't imagine any features more pleasing.

He wondered what his friends had really thought of him—not that they would have found him as appealing as Harry did, but he hoped that they would take a liking to Draco—he hoped there would be other Saturday night dinners with the four of them, and that he wouldn't need to segregate his friends and his lover. _"This isn't the old Ron,"_ he'd reminded himself repeatedly throughout the course of the evening, _"and this is nothing like the old Draco."_ Although there were a few awkward moments—mostly over the care and treatment of the Malfoy house-elves—Harry thought that, all in all, things had gone remarkably well. At least no curses were thrown or even threatened. Quite an accomplishment considering that it had involved a Malfoy, a Weasley, and a Granger!

"Tonight was all right, wasn't it?" he asked.

Draco made a funny snorting noise. "Personally, I'd call that exceptional, Potter, but suit yourself."

"Not that," Harry said, blushing a little, "I meant dinner with Ron and Hermione."

"If you're still thinking about dinner then it _really_ must not have been exceptional."

Harry shook his head. "Believe me, I've got _nothing_ to complain about."

"Good thing. Although if you think we need more practice..."

"I'll be sure to let you know."

Draco spelled off the candles and Harry pulled the silken duvet up to his chin. The room was a comfortable temperature, but Draco's bed was so lush that Harry always made full use of it. Relaxed and sated, he closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off to sleep.

Only to be roused again a few minutes later.

"So I wanted to ask you, about tonight..."

Draco's voice didn't sound at all tired. Unusual, since he was usually snoring softly long before Harry.

"Hmmm?" he mumbled.

"I don't think your friends like me very much."

"Of course they did," Harry mumbled sleepily. "You helped Ron trim his broom. He liked that."

"Yeah, Ron was okay, I guess. But Hermione ... she kept looking at me like ... like a three-headed dog or something."

Harry rolled to his side, facing where Draco would be, if he could have seen him. "Why are you not asleep?"

"It was peculiar, though, how she watched you," Draco continued, ignoring him. "How they both watched you, really."

"They're my friends, Draco. They're just being protective."

"Do they think I'm plotting something diabolical?" Harry felt the bed shift beside him; Malfoy must be agitated enough to sit up. "Harry, why did she keep saying you hated me in school?"

Harry stifled his sigh. "You're really not going to let me sleep, are you?"

"It was true though. You really hated me."

"I told you, we were kids then. We saw things differently. We've already talked about this."

"But she said it three times, like I really needed to get the message. And … I don't know, Harry. It just feels like there's more you're not telling me."

But Harry couldn't tell him. It would have been a relief to open up, now that he knew his memories weren't false. This was the kind of discovery that he longed to share with his lover. But when his lover was Draco Malfoy, the nemesis and foil of those memories, that just was not an option.

Draco took his silence as refusal. "Fine," he said shortly, his voice so distant it could have come from another room. "It's fine to ask me everything you want to know, whether it's your business or not. And I've answered every one of your questions. But you, I ask just one thing, one simple thing, and you..."

He stopped to take an exasperated breath. Harry knew that he should say something to comfort him, but he couldn't find any words that didn't sound like excuses. Sadly, Draco was right.

When it was clear that Harry wasn't going to say anything, Draco continued, more quietly than before. "I think you know I like you, Harry. Quite a lot, actually. You aren't like the dead-eyed people I meet every day. They're so scared, and they want me to tell them they're going to be safe, and I can't do that. But you aren't looking for anybody to keep you safe. You come blazing in with your questions, so curious about everything, and it's absolutely brilliant. But this..." Draco paused, as if gathering his nerve. "This is starting to feel too one-sided, Harry. I don't think this is working, you and me."

Harry had known there was a "but" coming, but he still hated to hear the tone of finality in Draco's words. And he felt sure that his happiness depended on changing Draco's mind. "This is not one-sided, Draco. I swear to you that it's not. I want to make this work—I want to make _us_ work, and I know we can, but it's ... there are just some things that I can't tell you."

"Why? Are you afraid I'll use them against you?" Malfoy sounded more bothered than ever. "Stars, Harry, you could have done that to me a hundred times over. Do you know how many times I've breached protocol with the things I've told you?"

Harry shook his head, forgetting that Draco couldn't see him in the dark. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm crazy."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because I thought I was, for a very long time."

Draco reached out and ran his fingers through Harry's wiry hair, their first touch since this conversation began. "I promise I'll listen to anything you say, Harry. And I won't think you're crazy."

Harry knew if he spoke, he was risking everything on a promise he could never hold Malfoy to. Still, his lover had a right to know, even if it tore them apart.

"I remember Hogwarts differently than you do," he began hesitantly. But the truth was tugging at his tongue, begging to be loosened. He reminded Draco of their first meeting, of flying for the first time, of Buckbeak. He admitted how much he had hated Malfoy and his acolytes when Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad had terrorised the school, and how bad he had felt when he cast the cutting curse that marred his lover's perfect skin. Draco never flinched; through it all he gently carded Harry's hair, urging him to continue.

Harry talked until his throat was raw, but there was always more to say: about Draco's role in Dumbledore's death, and Professor Snape—what he had thought of the man, and what he had done to save them all. The more he talked, the more he realised how mad this must all sound. The hard nights sleeping rough had never seemed so far away as they did in Draco's cosy bed, their captivity at Malfoy Manor was never more surreal. And as he recounted the details of the final battle, Harry felt as if he was reading a page from _Hogwarts: A History_. "I should have died," he finally rasped, "but instead I woke up in the hospital wing. Voldemort was gone, and no one remembered a thing."

Harry hated how quiet the room got when he finished. Not a comfortable silence like before, but one filled with dread. When Draco spoke, it would only be to tell him to get his things and go. Harry thought of all he'd brought to the Greenwich flat. It would take some time to gather them, and as exhausted as he felt now he didn't think he was up to it. Maybe he could send Kreacher for them later.

"Now I see why you haven't wanted to meet my parents."

The dry words weren't what he expected Malfoy to say, true though they were. Harry realised that Draco must be struggling with how to get this madman out of his home without upsetting him. Harry decided that, here at the end, he could at least spare him that. "It's all right, I knew you wouldn't want anything to do with me after hearing all this. I'd best go now."

Draco's fingers tightened in his hair the instant Harry tried to move. "Potter, you don't have a clue what I want." He exhaled sharply. "I admit, it is hard to hear all this. If I was really like that, then I can't blame you for hating me. I did some terrible things."

"You saved me, too. I can't forget that. Besides, it might not be true..." Harry said quickly, before adding, "although Sally, at the pub, she remembers the exact same things—she remembers Voldemort. We can't both be making it up, could we?" Malfoy didn't reply, and his hesitation was enough to spur Harry to again suggest, "Really, Draco, I think I should go."

"No." Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and held him tight. Harry idly wondered if he should be frightened, if his story had somehow resurrected the old Malfoy who might imprison him and turn him over to his father. But the old Malfoy would never have had a heart like this, beating solid and sure as Harry pressed his face into his chest. And the old Malfoy would never have clung to him as if he couldn't let him go, or leaned his cheek against Harry's head, or whispered, so quietly that Harry almost missed his words, "You're not crazy."

Harry tilted his head up, wishing he could see Draco's expression. "What did you say?"

"I don't know what to think. But I know I don't want you to go." He slid down the pillows, his lithe body moulding perfectly against Harry's. "Please, Harry, don't go."

"All right. I won't."

They stayed like that, wrapped around each other, until exhaustion finally overcame Harry. Draco, he knew, was still awake, and was watching over him.

Hermione's—and by default, Ron's—campaign to show Harry that they supported his lifestyle choice began immediately. She owled the next day to see if he and Draco could help select paint colours for their new kitchen. Draco laughed himself silly at the idea before offering to send Lubby and the other Malfoy house-elves to oversee the remodel. Harry begged off with more decorum, claiming that together they knew less about paint colours than Hermione did about the Quidditch, but arranged that they would meet her at the Leaky Cauldron after work on Tuesday.

It turned out to be the longest Tuesday in recent memory, and by the time he got to the pub Hermione was already nursing her butterbeer by the window. Harry resisted the urge to order a double firewhisky. Draco had promised to be on good behaviour tonight and would not appreciate having to carry Harry home.

"Is everything okay?" Hermione asked, as Harry finished a third of his butterbeer in just one go.

Harry shook his head, wiping the frost from his upper lip. "Remember the snake egg I told you about? The one Mr Critswold didn't know about? Well, he found out today."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "He didn't hurt it, did he?"

"The other way around," Harry grinned sardonically. "Newly hatched snakes are really snappy."

"Was he bitten?" gasped Hermione.

Harry nodded. "And then he spent ages cursing me before leaving for St. Mungo's. Oh, he's fine," he answered before Hermione could ask. "He came back to rant at me some more. Apparently cobras don't have much venom when they're that young."

"I guess it still hurt, though."

"From the way he was carrying on, yeah, I guess it did."

"What's he going to do now?"

"Well, when he left he told me to kill him, but I couldn't."

"You'd better not!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I didn't!" Harry reiterated. Then he frowned. "But I'm not sure if I shouldn't have done. There's something very wrong about him." The sight of Simbi, cowered in the corner of her cage while her zebra-striped son slithered menacingly around the crate, had not inspired his confidence in the newborn.

 _"He is an unnatural thing," Simbi hissed when Harry helped her into another box—after what happened to Mr Critswold, Harry wasn't eager to try to move the baby. But he had tried talking to him._

 _"What is your name?"_

 _The young snake studied him carefully, as if distrusting that a human could speak. At last he said, "You may call me Kalfu."_

 _"Kalfu? That's an unusual name."_

 _The snake ignored him. "My mother says I have no father. Is that true?"_

 _"It is," Harry admitted, "but you do have a mother, you can be grateful for that."_

 _The snake lunged up so quickly that Harry jumped back, forgetting the glass that separated them. "Grateful for that pathetic creature? She's caged and weak. What is there to be grateful for?"_

 _"Simbi is stronger than you know," Harry said defensively, though a quick glance at her dull scales belied his words._

 _The snake hissed disdainfully and then curled around himself, refusing to speak further, only glaring at Harry when he was moved to the front window._

"Mr Critswold's convinced someone will buy him," Harry explained to Hermione. "He reckons if he can make some money off him, it'll be worth keeping him around. But he made it clear that I'll be the one taking care of him."

"He's just a baby," Hermione insisted. "He was probably terrified of Mr Critswold. I'm sure if you treat him well, he'll come around."

Harry nodded, unconvinced that Kalfu could be terrified of anyone. He was about to say this when he a familiar hawk owl landed on the railing outside the window. Its pale yellow eyes seemed to be scanning the crowd in the Leaky Cauldron; when it spotted Harry, its speckled feathers ruffled with excitement.

"Horus?" Harry turned back to Hermione. "It's Draco's owl—I wonder if something's held him up."

He excused himself to retrieve the message, promising to throttle Draco if he was backing out of their plans. Horus seemed to sense his displeasure and hopped away when Harry approached.

"No, Horus, I'm not upset with you," Harry assured him in the calm voice he'd perfected at the shop. He traded the rolled parchment for one of the treats in his robe. The owl ate it and trilled for another as Harry read Draco's perfect script:

_Don't hate me—I'm tied up with work on the Eye and can't get away. Would much rather be there. Your place later?—D.M._

Harry brandished his wand and cleared the page, then signed his reply:

_Don't hate you, but you'll have to make it up to me—I'm already imagining how. The Eye?? See you in Stoke.—H._

He rolled it back up and secured it with Draco's green cording. "Here you go, Horus."

The owl purred again as it took the parchment, fluffed its neck feathers, and leapt into the sky. But instead of soaring down the Diagon high street toward the Salus offices, it veered to the right and down the passageway that led to the Ministry of Magic. _"What's Draco doing at the Ministry?"_ Harry wondered.

He wandered back inside the tavern to find Hermione with two fresh butterbeers and a very concerned expression.

"Was it bad news, Harry? Nothing's happened to Draco?"

"Hmm? Oh, no." He shook his head, realising that his expression had worried her. "I'm just a little confused. He said he's stuck at work, but his owl went toward the Ministry."

"Really? I didn't know he was working there. I wonder if he's with Ron's division."

Harry shook his head. "He would have mentioned it if he was, I'm sure. He said he's working on something called the Eye."

"Really, the Eye? Draco's involved with that?"

Harry wasn't sure why Hermione sounded so impressed. He vaguely remembered Draco mentioning it before, but never in a boasting fashion. "What is it, exactly?"

"Haven't you read the _Prophet_ lately?" Harry shook his head. After a brief flurry of interest in the media, he'd been distracted by other things. Or, to be precise, one other thing. Hermione rolled her eyes at him before explaining, "It's going to be the ultimate warding network. All wards will be connected at the Eye, and it will lead straight into the Auror Guard."

"That's the group that Ron doesn't like?"

"That's them," she nodded. "Although if they can keep people safe, then I'm all for it."

"Do the wards work, though? I thought nobody had been caught yet."

"No, that's true. But the warded homes do seem safer—I certainly feel safer with ours. And by the end of the year, Minister Thicknesse has pledged to have 90% of magical homes connected to the Eye."

"The end of the year? But that's just two months away!"

"I guess you won't be seeing too much of Draco, then."

"No, I guess not."

That came out sounding more glum than he had intended, earning him another of Hermione's looks of concern. "But surely he won't be working over the Hallows break," she consoled him. "You'll have lots of time together then. By the way, I saw Parvati Patil at Flourish & Blotts yesterday. She and Padma are throwing a Hallowe'en bash at Wych Hill and she asked me to invite you. Draco's welcome too, she said there will be lots of Slytherins..." She stopped suddenly, clasping her hands over her mouth. "I'm rushing things too much, amn't I? You and Draco might not even be out yet as a couple!"

Harry wasn't sure which question to answer first. In just a few seconds he'd gone from bemoaning that he'd have no time at all with Draco to wondering how they'd fill the long Hallow's holiday and then to coming out to all his old school friends. And actually, that last part concerned him the least. "We're out as a couple. I mean, I suppose we are. We aren't exactly hiding it."

"That's good," she said. "That you don't have to hide it, I mean. Not that you can't if you want to. You should have the same privacy in the bedroom as Ron and I..." Flustered, she wound down, and stared into her butterbeer with a bashful smile. "I'm making a right mess of this."

Harry smiled at this woman that he'd shared most of his life with. She was sincerely trying here, just to ensure that he knew she and Ron supported him. They always had, right from the very beginning, and years later they were still here. He reached across the table and pulled away the hand hiding her face. "You're doing just fine, Hermione. And I know I should have told you and Ron about this before. I just wasn't sure what you'd think of it ... of me, I mean."

"We don't think anything of it, Harry, other than that we're glad you've found someone." She squeezed his hand tightly, adding somewhat dubiously, "And you seem happy with Draco."

"I am, Hermione, I really am. I can't believe it myself." And that was truer than she'd ever know. "Although it feels odd to think about celebrating the holidays with someone. Other than you and Ron, I mean." He smiled fondly at his friend. "So I've forgotten, what was the first holiday you two celebrated together? Officially, I mean, as a couple."

Hermione had her glass halfway to her lips when she froze. "You know, I can't recall." She sat down the glass without drinking, a puzzled look on her face. "Isn't that the strangest thing? I thought that'd be something I'd never forget. Well, it must have been Yule, after the ball—or did we even go together?" Her face screwed up in real confusion. "I must be losing my mind. I can't remember at all."

A chill raced through Harry as he realised the wrongness of this. Hermione never forgot a thing; she was the one to whom they always came for answers. No, something was definitely going on.

But before he could figure out what that might be, he had to take care of his friend. He knew too well how it felt to lose your memories. "It's just slipped your mind, that's all. That happens when you're stressed. You let go of some things temporarily so you'll have room for others." He took her hand again, sliding back into his calming pet shop voice. "You'll remember. You're always going to be the brightest witch of our age."

Her look of worry didn't disappear completely, but she did chuckle. "Nobody's called me that in years!"

"Then we'll have to start again."

She smiled at Harry gratefully. "It is nice to hear. Sometimes working for the Ministry feels a bit like being a rat on a treadmill. There's so much to do, but whenever you start making any progress, your wheel starts spinning and you go nowhere." Shrugging, Hermione laughed, "Oh, listen to me complain. I'm such a civil servant cliché, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are, but we still love you. Now, tell me about this party at Parvati' ..."

Malfoy didn't arrive at Harry's until just after midnight. The loud pop when he Apparated into the flat woke Harry; he'd fallen asleep on the sofa with the _Quibbler_ still in his hand. Sleepily, he looked up at Draco.

"Zeus' balls!" the Slytherin cursed, "I thought I'd never get out of there!"

That roused Harry. He patted the seat beside him, where Draco sank against him and proceeded to try to burrow into Harry's neck.

"I was starting to wonder if they'd keep you overnight," Harry admitted, rubbing the knot in Draco's shoulder soothingly. "You were with the Auror Guard, yeah?"

"Brainless bastards, the lot of them," Draco muttered into Harry's collar. "They think if only they yell enough, the magic will do what they want." He lifted his head and looked at Harry remorsefully. "I'm sorry I bailed tonight. Did you and Hermione have fun?"

"We did, and don't worry about it. I was going to have you make it up to me, but I think I'll go easy on you."

"Too bad. I was looking forward to that," Draco winked. "But you're probably right, I'm not up to much tonight."

"Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich, or Kreacher could fix something more."

But his offer made Draco cling more tightly to Harry. "No, don't move, please. I don't think I can even make it to bed tonight."

"I'll levitate you then," Harry laughed. "And I've already transfigured the bed so you can't complain about how cramped it is."

"You ruin all my fun, Potter."

The tension in Draco's body seemed to flow out as they sat together, and before long Harry was holding a completely boneless Malfoy, his left arm was splayed across Harry's thighs. In the electric light his tattoo was only faintly visible. It never failed to trigger the alarm bells in Harry's memory, but he was trying as best he could to mute them. Gingerly he traced the outline of the frozen mark, his fingertip just grazing the crown of the scull, the coils of the snake, entranced by the symbol he had dreaded for so long...

"Everything all right, Harry?"

Startled, Harry looked up at Draco. "Yeah, I'm fine, why?"

"You just went really quiet, that's all." Draco shifted around so he could see Harry, the arm of his robe dropping to hide his mark. "So did you have any excitement today?"

"Well, the baby snake hatched. Then he bit Mr Critswold."

"He did?" Draco laughed heartily. "Oh, I like this little guy already. Can we keep him?"

"I think Mr Critswold wants to make some money off of him," Harry said noncommittally. After the day Draco'd had, he didn't want to share his misgivings about the snake. "He says his name is Kalfu. Have you ever heard that name before?"

"Sounds familiar." Draco rubbed his chin as he thought about it, then snapped his fingers. "I know, I saw it in one of Father's books on Vodou spirits. If I remember correctly, Kalfu and Legba are the two most important ones. Kalfu controls the evil forces, Legba the good."

"That makes sense," nodded Harry. "Simbi is a Vodou name too. I wish she could've named him Legba, though." _"Although,"_ he added to himself as he remembered the older snake cowering away from her young, _"Simbi probably had precious little do with his naming. Kalfu suits him too well."_ "So anyway," Harry asked aloud, "did you finish up at the Ministry today?"

"Hardly," sighed Draco in exasperation. "What they're asking for is impossible. _Should_ be impossible, anyway."

"To connect all the wards to the Eye?"

"The wards are already connected to the Eye. That was done ages ago."

"But..." Harry pointed to the papers. "They're all saying this is happening in the next few months..."

"That's a Ministry cock-up. They let slip to the press that the wards were being modified, and they had to make up something to explain what they were doing."

"Why? Are they doing something illegal?"

"Well, technically, no. But I'm sure that's only because nobody ever conceived that it could be done. And I'm not sure it can. I don't think _I_ can do it anyway, and if I can't, then I don't know who could."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"The Aurors want to spell the wards to reveal every act of magic that takes place. They want notice of who's doing it, where, when—they'd probably want to know why, too, if they could figure out how to do that."

Harry's alarm bells started to peal again. _"It's not the same Ministry,"_ he reminded himself, _"they're not under Voldemort's control."_ But still, the sheer amount of surveillance allowed the Auror Guard chilled his blood. "Can they do that?" he asked, hoping that Draco would quiet his fear.

"Well, no, that's the thing. It should be impossible. The wards aren't made to do that. It's one thing to supplement them with potions. That just changes their structure so they're more pliable. But this ... this is like a Prior Incantanto on an entire building. The wards shouldn't be able to do that."

Draco's face was flushed, his frustration palpable. Harry dreaded the thought of him facing this futile task every day for the next two months. Even more, he dreaded that it wouldn't be futile. "You keep saying it shouldn't work. Does it?"

"It might," admitted Draco. "See, the Eye is set up to alert the Aurors the minute an individual ward is breached. It's an incoming signal—it's only supposed to be one-way. But today I found another spell there—an outgoing one. I can't tell what it is, Harry, but it's got none of the protection qualities that are built into the wards. It's something else."

"And it's going out into people's homes?"

"If it works like I think, it affects anyone anywhere in the warded system. And that means that, using this model, I should be able to set up the new one they want."

"But you can't do that!" Harry looked at him aghast. "Somebody's got to do something! You should go to the press—tell them what's going on."

"Are you kidding me? That would kill our business." Draco snorted. "And then father would kill me." He threw a mistrustful, although teasing, glance at Harry. "Are you that anxious to get rid of me?"

But Harry, caught up in his indignation, ignored him. "But they can't be allowed to get away with this. They're influencing the entire wizarding population and nobody knows anything about it! That's a huge abuse of power!"

Draco snorted even louder this time. "They're Aurors, Potter. Most trusted bunch of scumbags in the whole Ministry."

Harry wanted to defend Ron, but he couldn't. If Ron had known about this, even Hermione wouldn't forgive him for keeping quiet. He imagined her righteous anger when she heard what the Ministry was doing. Yes, just tonight she had said she felt safer since installing their wards, but even so, she would never accept this invasion of their privacy.

Thinking of Hermione brought his mind back to their earlier conversation and to her puzzled face as she searched for her lost memories. And that led to a terrifying speculation. "Draco, this spell ... it couldn't make someone forget something, could it?"

"Do you mean like a Memory Charm?" Draco shook his head. "No, you can't Obliviate through a ward. It's a wanded spell."

"But the initial Obliviation fades over time," insisted Harry, who had done his fair share of research on memory spells. "And you can strengthen them without wands—hypnotic suggestion, for instance, or even snapping your fingers."

Draco pinched a long strand of his hair between his thumb and fingers, sliding down the length of it as he always did when lost in thought. After a while, he nodded. "You know, there might be a way for a mental component to be built into the core ward. I'll have to take one apart, I can start on that tomorrow but it'll take a while..."

"Do Ron and Hermione's."

His resoluteness seemed to surprise Draco. "Okay ... any particular reason?"

"They're my family," was the first answer that came out of his mouth, and Draco looked like that would be enough. But then Harry decided to share Hermione's memory loss. It felt harder than spilling his own secrets, but Draco might truly be able to help. Harry was willing to do just about anything for that chance.

So Harry told him all about Hermione's episode at the Leaky Cauldron. "I know what it's like," he finished, "to not remember something you once knew. And whether or not it really happened like she remembered, that's Hermione's memory. I want her to keep it. So if this spell had something to do with it..."

Nodding solemnly, Draco agreed. "You're right, that's not something she'd likely forget. I'll see what I can find out." And then he looked at Harry admiringly. "You know, you really might be on to something, Potter."

As if in agreement, the clock on the mantle chimed one o'clock—and Draco immediately answered with an ear-splitting yawn.

"Need to be levitated to bed now?" asked Harry.

Draco grinned wickedly. "I think I've enough energy to get there myself." And with a surprising burst of vigour, he drug Harry to the bedroom.

When Friday rolled around, Draco was still at the Ministry, growing more aggravated each day. He'd made a little headway on the embedded spell, agreeing with Harry's theory that it was likely a Memory Charm, but he was unable to disarm it or, as the Aurors demanded, recreate it in another form.

"And no one will tell me who set it in the first place. It's like I'm putting together a picture puzzle in the dark."

While Harry sympathized with Draco's frustration, at the same time he felt a hint of vindication. A Memory Charm in every household, keeping the wizarding world unaware of what had happened five years before? For the first time, Harry allowed himself to think that things might change—that people might actually remember. Of course, that brought a whole host of problems upon him, not least of which was his relationship with Draco.

Still, a frustrated Draco was not fun to be around, and the time Harry might have spent dwelling on the future was instead devoted to making sure their evenings were stress-free. Kreacher had pitched in too, ecstatic about doing his part for Master Malfoy. Although their meals had been a bit over the top, Harry couldn't remember ever in his life eating as well as he had in the past week.

As his workday rolled to a close, Harry was unloading two flats of owl kibble and contemplating how to rein Kreacher in. When the clanging doorbell announced someone's entrance into the shop he carried on with his task, only half-listening as his boss greeted the customer.

"Mr Malfoy, it's so very good to see you. What brings you to my humble establishment?"

Harry put the bag down and wiped his hands on his work robes, anxious to see his boyfriend on this unexpected visit, when a long-forgotten voice chilled his very soul.

"Ah, Mr Critswold. I understand that you have an unusual creature here."

"I've many unusual creatures. What's your pleasure, sir?"

Harry crept to the edge of the doorway and peered out. There, towering over Mr Critswold, was Lucius Malfoy. He was dressed in a velvet robe; its ermine trim alone was worth more than a month of Harry's salary. His boss was surely salivating over how much he might take him for. Harry couldn’t care less about that. What took him aback was how familiar the elder Malfoy's features were. The shape of his eyes, the slope of his cheek, even the long fingers clutching the polished cane—these were aspects he had studied in detail on another face, another body. It was deeply unsettling to see them in this form.

At least his saccharine voice was nothing like Draco's. "A snake, Mr. Critswold," Lucius purred cloyingly. "A new hatchling, to be precise."

"Oh, aye, we've a snake—a pair of them, if you like. I can give you a good price."

"The hatchling is all I require." He gestured around the shop. "May I see him?"

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy." They went together to the window where Kalfu was resting in the sun. "He's a fine specimen, king of the cobras. Just born this week, too. Wonderful temperament, perfect for a pet or even protect–"

"I'll take him" interrupted Lucius.

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy. For such a fine young creature, I think 500 Galleons is a fair price."

Harry's jaw dropped. There was no way that Kalfu could command such a high price—and Lucius apparently agreed. He held up a velvet pouch, shaking it so Mr. Critswold could hear the gold inside.

"Here are 300 Galleons. Thrice the going rate for a single egg, which is more than fair compensation for your efforts in hatching him. Do we have a deal?"

Mr. Critswold hesitated only for a second before taking the pouch. "I'll have my assistant put him into a travel carrier for you." Harry ducked further out of sight just as his boss bellowed, "Potter!"

Harry didn't dare breathe as Mr Critswold continued to call and eventually curse his uselessness. He couldn't see anything now, but he did hear Lucius' mocking voice quite plainly.

"There's no need to trouble Mr. Potter. I should be able to manage a young snake." Harry heard a quick Stupefy and then the sounds of the rock-hard snake being knocked against the sides of the aquarium. Then Lucius said, "Thank you, Mr Critswold. You've been most accommodating."

"The pleasure was entirely mine, Mr Malfoy. Please do come again if there's anything else you require."

With the doorbell clang, Lucius exited the front door ... and Harry fled through the back. He needed fresh air badly—maybe he'd held his breath too long, or maybe the thought of betrayal was what had tightened his chest, making it impossible to inhale. For surely it was Draco that had told Lucius where he could find the snake. And surely, if there was anyone who would have some desire for a malevolent snake, it was Lucius Malfoy, Voldemort's right hand, first among the Death Eaters.

 _"But Draco doesn't know the snake is malevolent,"_ insisted the tiny sliver of rationality remaining in Harry's mind. _"He only knows that he bit Mr Critswold, and he doesn't fault him for that."_ On the contrary, that had inspired Draco to ask if they could keep him. Was this perhaps Draco's plan, to have his father buy Kalfu ... either to keep for himself, or to gift to Harry later?

His breath was starting to return when Mr Critswold pushed his head through the door. "What in the blazes are you doing out here, Potter? I've been calling you for ages!"

Harry rubbed his sweaty forehead with the arm of his robe. "I was moving the kibble and I needed some air. I'm almost done ..." He looked at his boss and said guilelessly, "Do you need me to do something?"

"An owl brought this for you, didn't stay for a reply." He handed Harry the rolled parchment. "You can read it later—I'm taking off and you'll need to close up the shop. I want you to finish clearing these flats, and the vulture still needs feeding before you go home. Oh, and I sold your snake. I told you some fool would buy the wretched creature."

He returned to the store, and Harry followed. Quickly he levitated the remaining bags of owl food into their shelves and tossed a few unsuspecting mice into the black vulture's cage, and then unrolled Draco's note:

_Change of plans—emergency Walpurgis meeting this eve. at the Manor. Might be my chance to discover who's behind this blasted charm. Afterwards Mother will surely want me to stay over. Promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow.—D.M._

Harry read it twice to be certain, but there was no mention of the snake or his father. Just Death Eaters congregated at the Manor and Draco in the middle. Harry couldn't just leave him in that pit of vipers—he had to get to him somehow. But how? Apparating was out of the question, he would never get through the wards at the outer gates. He shuddered to think of his last visit there, of the contorted shapes and the unearthly face that kept guard. But he could stand there and face it, for Draco...

But what if that was their plan? What if Draco had orchestrated this façade to get close to him, to draw him in and undermine his defences? What if they had all known he would come to save his lover and they were lying in wait for him? He might arrive to find the entire Order of Walpurgis, wands drawn, with Draco at the helm...

 _"No,"_ barged in that voice of reason, sounding petulant for being ignored for so long. _"This is Draco,_ your _Draco. You've trusted him with your secrets. You've trusted him with your friends. And he's given you no reason to doubt him. This is just Walpurgis, this is just his business, and there's nothing malicious about it. Besides,"_ his rationality insisted with its stubbornly indisputable logic, _"if he'd meant you harm, he could already have killed you twenty times over."_

Although his fears weren't completely extinguished, Harry felt slightly calmer as he closed up the pet shop and left Diagon. Once home he knew he'd quite likely go stir-crazy, but he tried to take things one step at a time: shuffling into the rush hour traffic on Charing Cross Road, queuing up for the 73 bus, and packing in with all the other passengers as they lurched their way north.

The bus was standing room only. Harry wedged himself between two businessman, one leering at the _Sun_ 's page three girl, the other poring over _The Financial Times_. A little girl was seated facing him, dressed in a bright pink parka, holding out her bright pink gum for him to see. Harry smiled absently at her, willing the bus to hurry so he could retreat into his solitary fretting.

 _"Draco is fine,"_ he kept repeating as if to convince himself. _He'll no doubt be bored stiff at the meeting, and if he doesn't fall asleep himself he'll have stories of one of the Death Eaters that did. He'll mingle a bit afterwards, hopefully get some leads on the spell, maybe talk with his father about the snake. Then he'll come home tomorrow loaded with chocolate biscuits, spoiled to the core, and probably wanting me to wait on him like his mother does."_

He was feeling a little better by the time they reached Albion Road. A seat opened up and Harry squeezed himself in beside the little girl. She gave him a gap-toothed smile and reached her sticky hand up toward his forehead.

"AAAAAGGGHHH!"

Harry screamed as violent pain slashed through his body like a burning dagger. Not a headache—no, it was more like every cell in his head bursting in rapid succession. He clutched his forehead, the source of his agony, screaming louder when his flesh came away burnt. Lurching erratically, he slammed his head into the window behind him, then fell forward onto the floor of the bus. Other screams joined his, calling for the bus to stop, frantically moving away from him.

Through the red blur of pain he saw the little girl who'd been whisked away to safety. She stood a few feet away, safe in her mother's arms, and stared at him. Before Harry lost consciousness he was certain he saw her blue eyes turn to blood.


	10. In Partibus Fidelium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**In partibus fidelium**  
>  In parts inhabited by believers_

"Millicent!"

The tall witch, hearing her name, turned away from the mannequin in the dirty shop window. She glanced up the busy street, then back down, but didn't see anyone who might have been calling.

"Milli! Over here!"

From across the road a petite woman waved frantically. Millicent gasped as her friend dashed in front of a car, almost getting knocked down before making it safely to the pavement beside her.

"It's a good thing the hospital's handy."

"Oh, Millicent, darling, don't scold. It's been ages since anyone's seen you. It's fate that's brought me here."

"Fate, Pansy? Or the Covent Garden Market?"

"Okay, you got me. But look what I found!" She opened her lavender cape to show off the vibrant fuchsia scarf adorning her neck. "Madam Malkin's really should carry things like this. Her accessories are so uninspired, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know," shrugged Millicent. She gestured toward the white lab coat covering her pale blue hospital scrubs. "This is all I've worn for years."

Pansy screwed up her nose. "I'm sure being a Healer is rewarding and meaningful and all, but really, Milli, could it be worth this?"

"We can't all be as shallow as you, Pansy love," Millicent teased. "Besides, it's better than scourgifying entrails out of silk." Pansy pulled a face, making her friend smirk. "So tell me, how were your holidays? I missed everything! I was on a course in the States and they hardly celebrate over there."

"That's terrible! Hallow's is my favourite time of the year." She sighed, "This one was quiet, though. My parents were in Carpathia. And Draco..." she rolled her eyes.

"Oh, no, what's he done now?"

"He's moping, the poor lamb, ever since he got dumped. I couldn't even get him out on Hallowe'en."

"Dumped?" Millicent smirked. "Well, that's a switch. Isn't he the one usually doing the dumping?"

"Oh, definitely. In fact, I believe this is his very first experience as dumpee. I keep telling him to get back on the broomstick, but he won't stop pining for Ha–"

 _"Healer Bulstrode, you're needed in Admitting immediately. Healer Bulstrode to Admitting."_

The mannequin's lips didn't move when it relayed its message, but its blank eyes were staring directly at her. Millicent nodded and quickly hugged her friend.

"Sorry, Pansy, must run. We'll catch up soon, yeah?"

Without waiting for an answer Millicent stepped through the glass into the busy reception area. Ignoring the waiting patients, she hurried to the admittance desk.

"What've you got, Martin?" she asked the Mediwizard levitating a gurney that carried a man about her age. Despite appearing to be fast asleep, the patient was strapped down with industrial-strength Muggle restraints. "Are those really necessary?"

"We picked him up like that," the Mediwizard explained. "The Muggle Liaison found him hidden away at St. Ann's. He'd been there for a week or two so Merlin knows what they've done to him. His brain could be right addled—just your specialty, eh, Millicent?"

She ignored him as she waved her wand over the patient. He didn't stir, not even when she peeled back his eyelids and peered into his lifeless green eyes. In fact, he looked so still that she had to place her hand on his heart to convince herself that his heart was even beating.

"Thanks, Martin. I'll take it from here."

"Sure thing," the Mediwizard replied, handing her a clipboard containing a thick stack of paper as he left. Millicent leafed through a few pages; it always baffled her how Muggle doctors could know so much about their patients, and still not be able to do a thing to cure them.

"Oh, I forgot something," Martin said, wheeling around on his heel. "You know how you've got that whole ward of 'war survivors.'" Millicent nodded. The sixth floor ward, as much as they tried to keep its existence secret from the general wizarding population, was a thing of notoriety among St. Mungo's staff. "They all mention this Harry Potter fellow, yeah? Well, look here..." He tapped the name at the top of the clipboard. "This bloke says he _is_ Harry Potter."

Although it had been years since Harry had awoken in a wizarding hospital, as soon as he opened his eyes he recognised the distinctive smell: tangy redcurrents and rich, dark chocolate, and that slightly artificial freshness that comes from too much Scourgifying. It should have been a relief after weeks in the Muggle hospital, where antiseptic odours made his stomach churn and prodding nurses never let him rest. Magical bindings tight around his wrists, however, undermined any sense of comfort he might have felt.

"Hello?" he bellowed to the shapes moving like ghosts beyond the curtains. "Hey! Get me out of here!"

Almost immediately a young nurse peeked in. "Oh good, you're awake. You need your glasses, don't you, poor dear?" She got them from the night stand and slid them over his ears. "There, all better. I'll let Healer Bulstrode know you're up now."

The curtain whipped shut again, leaving Harry to survey his surroundings. There was little to see, just three walls of charmed cloth dividers that almost but not quite kept out the murmur from the ward. The wall behind was as dingy as the ceiling above. Without a doubt, he was in St. Mungo's. But why?

Before he could examine that question, the curtain whipped open. A tall witch carrying a clipboard entered, a warm smile spreading across her broad face. "Harry," she said, "it's good to see you're finally back with us."

Harry narrowed his eyes as he studied the Healer. He was accustomed to doctors and nurses feigning a friendly rapport, but this witch actually looked familiar. "Do I know you?"

"You used to," she said, her smile growing as she stepped closer to the bed. "We had Potions together for years. I'm Millicent Bulstrode, I'm a Healer, and you're at St. Mungo's. Harry, do you remember anything about how you got here?"

"Not really," Harry shook his head. "I know I was at the Muggle hospital. They kept giving me stuff to make me sleep..."

Millicent nodded, flipping through the chart. "Yes, they seemed to think you might be some kind of a threat." She frowned as she read. "Do you remember attacking a little girl?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed in surprise. "I wouldn't have done anything like that!"

"Yes, well, Muggle reports are rarely accurate," Millicent said, setting the chart aside and drawing the wand from her pocket. "And I don't think those are necessary anymore." With a wave the restraints disappeared. "I'm sorry we had to leave them on so long, it's just procedure on this floor. We don't want to risk anyone getting hurt."

"It's okay," murmured Harry, rubbing his sore wrists. "How did I get here?"

"Our Muggle Liaison found you. We have a patient exchange agreement. We often send them Squibs when we can't treat them ourselves, and if they come across any magical persons they turn them over to us. It usually doesn't take this long, but apparently you were very uncommunicative. Do you remember what happened?"

She cocked her head at Harry, an expression that faintly recalled his school days. It was probably meant as an engaging gesture, something that Healers used to help their patients feel secure. But it reminded Harry of a broad-faced girl glaring at the Gryffindors over steaming cauldrons. And that reminded him of Draco, which sent a rush of panic through him. There was some reason he wasn't supposed to think of Draco ... some _thing_ he wasn't supposed to think of Draco...

"You remember something, don't you, Harry?"

He did remember. He remembered excruciating pain pouring from his scar, a vision of unholy red eyes, a cloyingly sweet voice. He remembered Sally sharing her same recollections, and he remembered a whispered assurance, so soft he might have imagined it, that he wasn't crazy. But he couldn't say any of this. He'd endured years of ignominy for his memories; he wouldn't go through that again.

Worse, what could he say to this _Slytherin_ if, as he feared, Voldemort had returned? Would she deliver him directly to her Dark Lord?

"I just remember passing out," he lied. "I got dizzy on the bus—that happens sometimes, I probably just stood up too quickly. But I'm much better. I'd like to go home now."

Madam Bulstrode shook her head. "I'm sorry, but that's not possible. You can only be released you into the custody of an authorised person."

"An authorised person? Who's authorised?"

"I can't tell you that, I'm sorry. The authorised people know who they are. They would have to come to collect you."

Harry sat up straighter. "But you can't hold me against my will!"

"I'm afraid we can," the Healer insisted. "According to Ministry Decree 893, St. Mungo's is charged with housing anyone whose actions or convictions might be a threat to the general stability and security of wizardom."

"That's ridiculous!" insisted Harry, his voice rising. "I'm no threat! I work in a pet shop!"

"Please, calm yourself," Millicent drew her wand. "I don't want to bind you again, but I will if I must."

Harry patted down his pyjamas and then his eyes darted to the bedside table.

"You're looking for your wand?"

He nodded, feeling utterly helpless without it.

"That's the other reason for the delay—you weren't carrying a wand. That's usually the first thing that tips off the Muggles. Even if you were, though, you wouldn't get it here. Magic is strictly forbidden on the sixth floor." She patted his shoulder kindly. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Everyone does. And you'll be treated very well. Now, if you're up for it, I'd like for you to join the others in the dining hall. Lunch will be served soon. You'll find fresh robes in the wardrobe by the lavatories..."

"Wait, you said the sixth floor ... there's no sixth floor here."

"Oh yes, Harry, there certainly is."

With a flick of her wand, Madam Bulstrode vanished the curtains surrounding Harry's bed. Suddenly he found himself in the biggest ward he'd ever seen. It stretched before him, more than quadruple the size of the ward where he'd visited Mr. Weasley, and filled with at least fifty beds. Some were occupied, others neatly made, but the majority appeared to have been left in disarray as if their residents had fled without warning.

"I know it must seem a bit overwhelming," the Healer said kindly. "It will take a little while to get used to things, but everyone is quite friendly ... and I'm sure they'll all be _thrilled_ to meet _you_." She smiled mysteriously for an instant; then reverted to her previous professional self. "I'll leave you to it then. You'll find the dining room along the left-hand corridor, just past the lavatories; the ladies' ward is on the other side, you'll need to stay clear of there. And Harry, if there's anything you need, anything at all, don't hesitate to let one of us know." She smiled once more before leaving his bedside.

Harry considered pulling the covers back up over his head, but when his stomach protested with a huge growl he swung his legs off the bed. A pair of thin slippers waited under the bed, and with them on he padded toward the door labelled "Wizards." A row of uniform white sinks greeted him inside, with a single full-length mirror at the end. Opposite the sinks was an open cabinet stuffed with towels, robes, and pyjamas, all in the same dingy grey flannel of the pyjamas he now wore. On the other side of the cabinet were showers and stalls. Like the larger room outside, this one had no windows. Light seemed to emanate from the beige ceiling, lending the whole place the air of an overcast winter day.

Harry shrugged out of his pyjamas and into a fresh robe, trying in vain to flatten the creased material. _"Good thing Draco can't see me,"_ he murmured to his reflection with an absent smile, only to feel his knees buckle under him as he realised what he'd said. _"Draco!"_ he thought as he steadied himself against the porcelain sink. _"What must he be thinking?"_

Harry had been missing for a week, maybe more. Draco must be looking for him. The Slytherin was determined, and much smarter than Harry had ever given him credit for back in school. It was only a matter of time before Draco tracked him down and got him out of here.

Unless Draco believed he'd gone of his own volition. Surely he wouldn't think Harry had run from him again?

 _"No,"_ Harry reassured himself. _"We're well past that. Draco will come."_ And Ron and Hermione, who were no doubt just as worried. They would find him.

If they knew to look for a hospital wing that didn't exist.

Overwhelmed by the feeling of panic scratching persistently on the edge of his mind, Harry sank to the cold tile and wrapped his arms around his knees. "Get a grip," he scolded himself. "There's got to be a way to get a message to somebody."

"Oh, I assure you, there's not!"

Startled by the too-perky voice, Harry looked up to see a man gazing at him. His face was lined with wrinkles, but in his eyes there was still a bright twinkle of life.

"Who are you?"

The man folded himself into an elaborate bow. "Silas Featherstone, at your service. And you, young man, must be new here. First newcomer in nigh on six months!"

Harry nodded miserably. "What is this place?"

"This is the place for the forgotten, for those who never forgot," he mused, lowering himself to sit beside Harry with an ease that belied his age. "Also known as St. Mungo's Ward for the Mental Victims of Natural Disasters, although you'll never hear anyone call it that because no one knows we're here. 'Mental victims,' isn't that the cleverest phrase? Although..."

Harry waited for the man to continue, but he'd become enchanted by his wiggling toes. Harry could almost understand why. Unlike the rest of this dingy place, his feet were garbed in every colour in the rainbow, each individual waggling toe striped with a different shade.

A bit hesitant to interrupt the wizard's reverie, Harry asked, "Have you been here a long time, Mr. Featherstone?"

"Call me Silas, my boy. We're all friends here. Have to be, we're all we have. And yes, I've been here since shortly after the so-called natural disaster, which those of us here know as the night You Know Who was defeated."

"You Know Who!" Harry exclaimed. "You mean Voldemort?"

Silas recoiled as if Harry's words had burned him. "You Know Who may be gone, but there are few who'd be comfortable using his name like that."

Harry brushed the back of his hand against his scar, remembering how it had reignited for the first time in years. "So you've all been locked up because you remember what happened?"

"Precisely," said Silas, as if Harry had just made a profound discovery. "'For the general safety and security of wizardom.'" He didn't sound at all troubled by this pronouncement; in fact, he sounded quite proud of. Harry wondered just how addled his brain had gotten in this ward.

"And you've all been stuck in here for five years?"

"All of us? Oh, goodness no! There were only a handful of us at first. Just a hand, full of hands." He waved his fingers now in front of Harry's face, wiggling them even more than he had his toes. "They kept us in the spell damage wing at first. Even tried their best to cure us," he shook his head, chuckling fondly, "but we were beyond hope."

"Didn't anyone ever try to escape?"

"Of course, once or twice. I even made it out myself once, all the way back to Dingwall. Thought my dear wife would be happy to see me, but she called the hospital and next thing I knew, I was back here. Oh, Celia, how I miss that old bat..." he sighed wistfully. "She had hair black as coal, and she'd tie it back with these ribbons, red and gold."

"She was a Gryffindor?" asked Harry, entranced as the wizard's fingers wound invisible ribbons around his own unkempt hair.

"Aye, that she was, and the loveliest witch in all the school. I couldn't believe my good fortune when she gave this old Hufflepuff the time of day."

Harry smiled at him with pity. "Why did she send you back?"

"Said it was for my own good, she did. Of course, that was in the days when the Healers were still saying they could help us. 'Clear our minds,' they promised, then they'd send us home. But no minds ever cleared, and nobody ever went home. And more and more of us trickled in, hands upon hands upon hands. When we'd outgrown the ward downstairs they moved us up here, must be going on three years now."

This made sense, Harry realised. Whatever Obliviate spell had been used, it was an insidious one, stronger than any he'd ever discovered in his research. But obviously, it hadn't worked on everyone. And as time wore on, its potency diminished and memories were revived. But he couldn't help wondering why they hadn't just been Obliviated again.

Now Silas turned to Harry, scrutinising him carefully. "And now you've joined us, happy days, with all your hands and your lovely news from the outside. You'd best come meet the others." The man sprung to his feet, surprising Harry again with his agility. With his thick grey mane and his ludicrous socks and his nonsense talk, he reminded Harry of Dumbledore. "I reckon you'll be very popular … I'm sorry, young man, what did you say your name was again?"

"I don't think I said," Harry answered, wondering how to beg off without being rude. He wasn't up to meeting anyone else, not just yet. "I'm Harry Potter."

For years, his name had garnered no reaction. He'd grown used to that anonymity. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be recognised by strangers. That all came back to him now.

"Harry Potter!" Silas exclaimed, grabbing Harry's arm and pulling him into the ward. He scrambled onto a nearby chair and shouted out, in a voice that boomed throughout the massive hall, "Everyone, look! It's the Boy Who Lived!"

Harry had never been comfortable with celebrity, and celebrity had never been as constant a companion as it was during those first days in St. Mungo's Ward for the Mental Victims of Natural Disasters. Now everyone wanted to meet him, examine the scar on his forehead, stare into the eyes of the Boy Hero. And everyone knew his life story—or at least they thought they did. A wizened blue-haired witch asked after the kindly Muggle family who had taken Harry in and taught him magic after his parents were killed. A wizard whose gruffness reminded Harry of Snape insisted that Harry come clean about his attempt to overthrow You Know Who and rule the Death Eaters himself. And Olive and Hester, two young witches that Harry half-remembered from Hogwarts, swooned over him and begged to hear all about his tragic romance with Hermione. It seemed that each one of the eighty-eight residents had a different version of the battle of Hogwarts.

Including one version that he didn't expect.

"We should've killed you ourselves, Potter."

Gregory Goyle had changed little in the years since Hogwarts. Oh, he was a bit thinner—while healthy enough, the meals at St. Mungo's weren't as sumptuous as those at Hogwarts—but meanness still gleamed in his deep-set eyes and his scowl was as bitter as ever.

"As I recall, you tried," Harry countered, adding with a sly smile, "You would have if Draco hadn't stopped you."

Goyle narrowed his eyes into paper-thin slits, whether with malice or confusion Harry couldn't say. "You ruined everything, Potter. After you were dead, I was set to take the Mark. My father had arranged it. And you had to go and ruin it."

"Yes, Goyle, I'm so sorry I didn't die so you could become a pigeon-brained toady," Harry retorted, forcing himself to stand his ground when the Slytherin moved closer. He didn't have the height on Harry that he'd in school, but his menace hadn't diminished a whit. "You really ought to be thanking me for that."

"Thanking you?" His thick neck flushed fire-engine red. "It's your fault we're in here, Potter. I don't know what you did, but you fucked things up somehow. And every single person locked up in here has you to thank."

Harry almost doubled over from the Slytherin's foul breath in his face. Hygiene apparently was not at the top of the man's priorities. "Piss off, Goyle. I didn't do anything."

"You're a liar, Potter. This is your doing—you and that Mudblood's. And when I find out what you did..." Goyle didn't finish the threat, but the way he rubbed his knuckles left Harry in no doubt of his meaning. He stomped away, leaving Harry confused and shaken.

It wasn't that he feared Goyle would attack him, or that he could pin what had happened on Harry. Goyle was still the thick-necked moron he'd known at Hogwarts and Harry was certain he could win a battle of wits—or hold his own in a fight. What bothered Harry was the faintest hint of doubt that he was innocent in all of this. For so many years he'd been convinced that he was the only one affected. Now he was with eighty-seven other people whose lives had been destroyed. And who knew how many were still living with these memories outside?

What if he _had_ been responsible? Harry wracked his brain to remember every detail, right up until he offered himself to Voldemort. Even without being Obliviated, the natural passage of time had blurred that night's events until they were barely recognisable as his own memories. But he was as certain as he could be that he'd done nothing to trigger a spell of this magnitude.

Still, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that he'd been involved, somehow.

It wasn't as if anyone else blamed him. Silas was right in saying that they were all friends here. In fact, Harry had a deep suspicion that a powerful cheering charm was cast every morning with the crowing of the ward's magical rooster. Like the other inmates, Harry sprang from bed with a renewed sense of optimism. He knew he wasn't as upset about his confinement as he should have been, and as the days ran together he had to remind himself that he should be finding a way to escape. But more and more, he was filling his time just as the other residents did: sessions with the Healers to see how he was "socialising," playing the games the orderlies organised, and reading from the sizeable library of mostly Muggle paperbacks.

Night-time was different. Although a slumbering charm stilled the residents after they were tucked into their beds, not a night went by that Harry wasn't awoken by dreams more troubling than ever before. Voldemort featured most prominently in them. Sometimes he had the reptilian features that had chilled Harry at the elder Riddle's grave. Other times he bore the face of the young Tom Riddle, with that unsettling union of innocence and malice. And still other times he had no face at all. These were the nightmares that woke Harry in a cold sweat, for as much as he tried to run from the featureless mass, two red eyes would inevitably draw him forward, paralysed and voiceless, and always so utterly helpless.

But sometimes Harry wasn't alone. Woven in and out of his darkest nightmares he often found another soul shining like a moonbeam. In his dreams Draco was on his side, offering his hand to pull him from the abyss, hiding him under his cloak as Voldemort hunted for them, flying beside him as they escaped into the air. Only, Draco never escaped. After some moment of distraction, Harry would remember to look for his lover, only to find himself alone with a dread certainty that he was gone.

Harry never fell back asleep after this kind of dream. Instead he would lay awake as the night ticked on, listening to the creaking bedsprings and sleeping breaths of eighty-seven people, and resolving to get himself out. Somehow.

"Are we leaving today, then, Harry?" joked Silas, as he did every morning when he passed Harry at the breakfast table.

"Might be, Silas, might be—if you're not too busy playing checkers."

Days passed, then weeks, and before he knew it Harry was celebrating his first month in St. Mungo's. No one else had been admitted since and, like his fellow patients, Harry was starving for news of the outside world. So when a careless orderly left behind a few pages of _The Daily Prophet_ in the women's toilets, the event was akin to a national holiday. A top-secret national holiday, that is, one that couldn't be celebrated openly. Harry was on pins and needles all afternoon, convinced that the orderlies would discover the reason for the buzz electrifying the ward. But they were oblivious, even when night came and the patients climbed into bed like kids on Christmas Eve.

Harry fought against the sleeping charm weighing down his eyelids until he heard the all-clear signal from the lookouts. As one, the men made their way in the dark to the lavatories, where they were met by the women. The lavatory doors were propped open, creating a narrow triangle of light illuminating Callandra Osgoode, the oldest witch in the ward. She held the coveted pages in her hands, but waited patiently until the whispers quieted away. Then she spoke.

"I know we're all excited about this unexpected news. Please remember to thank Penelope Leggott next time you see her." She held up the broadsheets, and then divided them. "We have four pages," she explained, "two front and two back. Silas will take one for the men, and I'll take the other. Everyone will get a chance to read their page, and then we'll swap. Is that understood?"

She paused dramatically as the room murmured in agreement.

"This is from yesterday, December fifth, so it's as current as we're likely to get." Callandra took on a matronly air as she added, "We have all night, so I hope everyone will remember that, and be patient and polite."

"Thank you, Callandra," said Silas as he took his pages from the witch. "All right, lads, follow me, follow me..."

The men trailed after him into the men's room, with the women marching in parallel step into the ladies'. Harry found himself bouncing on his toes, adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

"News news news," sang Silas merrily as the men settled around him on the tile floor. "You know the drill: I'll read an article aloud, then hand it off to someone else. When you're called, pick your article quick quick, while the news is still new." His rainbow-coloured toes wiggled gleefully as he scanned the pages. "Now, we've got Quidditch or the front page. What do we want first?"

"Quidditch!"

From the unanimous whispers and the hushed laughter that followed, Harry knew he wasn't the only one feeling giddy. It didn't matter that Quidditch was long out of season in Britain, or that normally he wouldn't have given two flips about the Brazilian team's loss to the Argentine underdogs. He and the rest of the wizards listened keenly, memorising every detail about players they didn't know and might likely never hear of again.

Silas passed the paper to Robert Coopersmith, who read Rita Skeeter's short piece on Ludo Bagman, holding up the paper so everyone could get a good look at him mugging with Barry Ryan, the English coach. Benedict Falls was next, drawing a chuckle from the crowd for reading the weather forecast, followed by Samir Verma, who turned to the front page for Deborrah Mason's crime report from Diagon Alley.

Harry had always disliked the _Prophet_ 's sensationalist accounts and hated that now he was hanging on every word. The reporter truly was fishing for stories, though, keeping up a state of fear despite crime dropping to nearly nil. She attributed that to the diligence of the Auror Guards. This caused a stir of dissent among the men, many of whom had been brought in by the Guards.

 _Amid the men's cries of "wankers" and "fucking peelers," Samir finished the short article and handed the _Prophet_ off to Ambrose Garibaldi. _

"Oh, no, no," Ambrose protested, "I didn't bring me specs. Here," he said, thrusting the paper into Harry's hands. "You've got young eyes, you give it a go."

"Sure," agreed Harry, fingering the cheap newsprint as if it were made of spun gold. Already open to the front page, a headline caught his eye: "Eye Completed; Minister Ushers In New Era of Security." Underneath was a large photograph of Thicknesse surrounded by five Aurors in dress robes, pumping the hand of the one in the middle. "Minister Thicknesse compliments the Auror Guard on a job well done" was the caption. Harry cleared his voice and began to read.

"'Witches and wizards can rest easy in their homes tonight,' Minister Pius Thickness promised the Council of Concerned Witches when announcing the completion of the world's most advanced security system. 'Through generous private support and the cooperation of companies like Salus..." Harry's voice faltered on the name of Draco's company and he had to start again. "...companies like Salus Securities, Britain's wizarding community now has the finest protection available from the Auror Guard..."

"Fucking Guards again," interrupted a voice in the crowd, but that wasn't what made Harry's voice disappear. That was caused by the tail end of the moving image, just as the Minister turned away from the camera, when a figure behind them darted in and out of view. For a split second he stared directly at the camera—directly at _Harry_ —with a familiar sneer that stole Harry's breath clean away.

 _"He did it, then,"_ Harry thought, waiting for the images to roll through again. _"He figured out the spell."_ And though part of him dreaded to think what the Auror Guard could do with such unrestricted power, another undeniably larger part was filled with pride over Draco's accomplishment.

The photograph cycled through once more, Harry grinning stupidly at Draco's open contempt, before he was interrupted. "What's up, Potter?" Goyle demanded to know. "Forget how to read?"

When Harry looked up with a shaky smile, Silas chuckled. "Kneazle's got his tongue. Don't worry, son. If you want someone else to read for you..."

But Harry gripped the paper tightly. "No, I can do it." Shakily he picked up where he'd left off, hardly paying attention to the words. It was just the Ministry's usual hot air, after all, with Thicknesse boasting about months of tireless effort as if he'd been the one single-handedly casting the wards. Harry tried his best to time his reading so he could glance at the picture just as Draco came into view.

Too soon he finished the article and, with an aching heart, passed the paper on to Tommy Tuttle, the youngest wizard in the ward. He hardly heard another word, too absorbed with the scornful expression he'd seen on the page. Was Draco's glare meant for the photographer or the Guards? Did he know the mysterious benefactor who backed the Auror Guard? Had it been a hard slog in the end or had he figured out the spell quickly? Did he look weary or was that just Harry's imagination?

Once the paper was finished and Silas went to swap, the men jumped into conversation. Normally Harry would have loved to join in, but tonight he moved to the corner and crouched alone by the wall. In his head he kept replaying the brief image, an endless loop of two steps and a sneer, and he dared do nothing that might weaken it.

The second half of the reading was much like the first. Almost everyone had a chance to read something—even Goyle butchered a piece about broomstick making in the Orkneys—until at last they finished the very last piece.

"Lovely job, lads, lovely job," Silas praised them. "Now it's back to bed with all of you. The cock will crow far too soon."

As the men wandered sleepily out, yawning with every step, Harry approached Silas. He had decided to ask if he could keep the picture of Draco, but was shocked when sparks flew from the old wizard's finger and ignited the paper. Silas winked when he saw Harry staring at him. "Looks like I've still got it!"

"Why did you do that?" asked Harry, aghast.

"Can't risk being caught, my boy." He dropped the conflagration into the sink and watched it crumple into ash. "We find a paper every month or so. It helps when the orderlies are unorderly. We wouldn't want them to be more vigilant, would we?"

"No, definitely not..." Harry said, turning away quickly and forcing his way through the gridlock of men threading their way through the door. "Sorry ... excuse me..." He had to reach Callandra before she ignited her paper, destroying the first glimpse of Draco he'd had in weeks. Breathless, he swung the door to the ladies' toilets open, pulling himself up short when Olive O'Leary, who was reading the Quidditch story, smiled bashfully at him.

"Can we help you, Harry," Callandra said in a not-at-all-helpful voice as forty women glared at him disapprovingly.

"Um, I just need to see the front page again ... when you finish, I mean," Harry stuttered. "Please ... don't destroy it."

His desperation must have been convincing. "I'll bring it to you after we're finished."

Harry nodded and retreated as gracefully as he could. Pacing back and forth, he waited until the door opened and women streamed out. Callandra was one of the first, and she looked at him sharply as she held out the paper.

"I shouldn't have to tell you that you can't keep it."

Harry tried not to snatch it from her too greedily, but already the picture was halfway through the cycle and any second now Draco would come back into view. Harry waited until he had appeared and then vanished before looking up at the witch. "I know, but I ... I just needed to see him again."

Her look softened just a little. "This is someone special to you?"

"Very special." It was almost time for Draco to appear again, and Harry's thumb brushed the edge of the photograph right where he knew his lover's face would pop into view. "Can I keep it for a little while? I promise to destroy it before morning."

Callandra considered his offer, and then nodded. "When the rooster crows, your time is up." She started away, then looked back. "Don't make me regret this, Harry."

He nodded solemnly. "I won't."

Harry returned to the men's lavatory, his eyes fixed on the photograph as it scrolled. He wished he'd counted how many times he'd watched for Draco, as if knowing the number of second-long glimpses could somehow make it add up to a real memory. He started counting then, but lost track after the first sixty or so, when he'd run out of fingers and toes and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. But he kept pacing, watching, trying in vain to see what the picture couldn't show him: who now laid claim to Draco's loyalties?

It was a growing awareness that at first he tried to ignore, but sometime around his hundredth viewing Harry could no longer avoid comparing this obsession to the Mirror of Erised. He was content to spend the night here, staring, just as he had with the vision of his family a decade ago. And as Dumbledore had warned him then, he couldn't dwell in dreams and forget to live.

It was with this realisation that an idea struck Harry. After watching Draco wind past his sight one last time, Harry made his way into the men's ward. From his bed he counted carefully until he stood beside a snoring mass.

"Goyle, wake up," Harry whispered, shaking him hard.

"Not time, Ma ... more sleep."

"It's not your Ma, it's Harry. Potter," he added, tugging at the blanket curled in Goyle's fists. "Goyle, get up!"

"What the hell do you want, Potter?" growled Goyle.

"I have something to show you. C'mere."

Complaining in a voice loud enough to wake the other inmates if they hadn't all been so exhausted, Goyle plodded after Harry. In the lavatory's light his normally beady eyes disappeared altogether into a squint, but when he opened them again Harry held out the photograph.

"I wanted you to see this."

"What in Merlin's name ... why do you have a picture of Dick and Al?"

"Who?"

"Dick Warrington and Algernon Montague. They were a year ahead of us," Goyle said in an annoyed voice, pointing out two of the Auror Guard. "Of course you wouldn't remember them, Potter. They were only in Slytherin," he snorted, "not good enough for you and your wonderful Gryffindors."

Harry peered at the picture. They did look vaguely familiar, though he'd never have picked them out of a crowd. As he stared, Draco's head popped out and caught his eye. "See! There, that's who I wanted you to see ... damn, he's gone."

Goyle glared at Harry. "What are you playing at, Potter?"

"Nothing, just watch..." Harry tapped the edge of the picture where Draco would appear. "Watch ... just another second ... there."

As if on cue, Draco took his step before the camera, glared, and then slipped behind the Aurors. And Goyle's head snapped up to stare at Harry. "Draco?"

"Draco," repeated Harry, smiling, just taking pleasure in saying his name aloud.

Goyle nodded and then turned back to the photo, waiting for another round. He chuckled the next time Draco appeared. Then he looked back up, frowning. "Why are you showing me this?"

"I thought you'd like to see him, that's all. I know he was important to you."

"He was ... he was my only friend ... after..." Goyle broke off and glared at Harry. "What are you doing with this? Draco despises you, Potter."

Harry shook his head. "No, he doesn't. We got to be friends," he smiled down at the picture. "Very good friends."

Goyle was silent for a long while, going through several cycles of the image. Harry knew the wheels turned slowly inside the Slytherin's head, so he wasn't surprised to see a look of horror spread gradually across his face. "Draco and ... you?" he spat out in disgust.

"I'm afraid so," Harry admitted. "Draco's the reason I want to get out of here."

Goyle stared at the photograph without speaking. Harry knew what he was going through. Although, maybe he didn't. The Slytherin had been locked in here for five years. He'd known who this boy was; he had no idea about the man he'd become. Harry could at least share that with him. "He's doing well," Harry offered. "He lives in Greenwich and runs a company with his father. He's a rotten businessman but he loves what he does, and he's the best at it. He still flies as much as he can—still handles a broomstick like nobody I've ever seen." It felt good to talk about his boyfriend like this. Later, Harry could go back to worrying about Malfoy's loyalties and the mark marring his perfect skin. For now, he grinned as Draco sneered again. "He's the smuggest bastard I ever met and sometimes I think he's the smartest wizard alive."

"I always thought he was," Goyle admitted. "I'd have flunked out if not for him."

Harry thought that was the extent of the Slytherin's conversation, but after a long silence he went on. "After the battle, when everybody forgot, I didn't. Everybody else thought I was nutters, even my own parents—they're the ones put me in here—but Draco never did."

They stared at the picture together until Goyle's ear-splitting yawn shook Harry from his thoughts. "I promised to destroy this," he said. "We can't risk the orderlies finding it." The Slytherin nodded; Harry realised that he knew this routine; he'd been through this many times before. They watched together one last time, and then Harry shredded it and flushed the pieces away.

"Thanks, Potter. That was decent, showing me that," conceded Goyle as they left the lav and stumbled back to their warm beds.

Surprised, Harry stammered back, "Yeah ... no problem, Goyle. Goodnight."

"'night."

Exhausted, Harry crawled beneath the covers, certain he would fall asleep as soon as he shut his eyes. But despite knowing there were precious few minutes before the cock crowed, his mind was spinning. Random images sped through his mind: Death Eaters in a ring, the Minister's ingratiating smile, Lucius Malfoy holding a pouch of gold, Crabbe screaming in agony—they all flickered past, mimicking the picture he'd stared at for hours. The only thing that made them finally stop was the phantom pressure of Draco's cheek against his head, and his whispered words. _"You're not crazy."_


	11. Diem Perdidi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Diem perdidi**  
>  Another day wasted_

"Ready to go, Harry?"

"Just give me a minute, Evie."

Evie hadn't been working at the hospital for long, but already she'd become a favourite among the sixth floor residents. She reminded Harry of Gabrielle Delacour all grown up. She was nearly as petite—Harry towered a full head over her—and her features were as delicate as a Lladró ballerina. With a bright smile that frequently dissolved into giggles, she seemed much younger than her 18 years. She'd been especially kind to him, and Harry suspected that she might have the inklings of a crush; her giggle became slightly more pronounced when his eyes were fixed on her. It made him hate what he was about to do, but he could think of no better way.

Each Monday morning for the past five weeks, Harry had thrown a dingy grey dressing gown over his dingy grey pyjamas and, accompanied by an orderly, padded down two flights of service stairs to Healer Wane's office. Their times together were spent mostly in comfortable silence, with the witch exercising that practiced patience found only in psychiatrists and lion tamers. Occasionally she might ask if he was sleeping, if he was eating enough, and Harry couldn't help thinking that she must be a wonderful mother.

Meanwhile, Harry was going through each potential escape route. More than once he longed to have Hermione by his side to notice the tiny details that he was bound to overlook. Or Ron, to give him courage when the hospital's charms sapped his will and made him wonder if staying here might not be so bad. But even the thought of his friends helped him focus. From the windows in the Healer's office (charmed, but possibly breakable) to the fourth floor ward's main door (supposedly locked, yet Gilderoy Lockhart had somehow gotten through), he painstakingly catalogued each possible exit. Finally, with the fervent hope that Hermione would approve, he decided the best way out was in the stairwell as a single orderly walked him down.

Today, when he saw little Evie Hellespont was on duty, he knew it was time.

Harry stretched, pleading with his charmed bones to shake off their lethargy. Catching Evie's eye on him, he flexed again, and even threw in a flirtatious wink. _"Merlin,"_ he silently groaned, _"now I'm channelling Draco."_ Which was probably a good strategy, he reminded himself, knowing the Slytherin would have stopped at nothing to get out of this place.

"Ready for me now?" he called, grinning as she blushed and led him from the ward. The girl opened the door with a whispered "Alohamora", not noticing the intensity with which Harry studied her wand motion. Such a simple spell, but so much depended on the movements accompanying this all-important word. It had been weeks since Harry had held a wand, and to become familiar with a new one ... well, he doubted he'd have the same luck that he'd had with Draco's. And today was not a day to take anything for granted, he reminded himself, watching closely as she slipped her wand into the right-hand pocket of her scrubs. He pointedly refused to think about the bright butterfly embroidered onto it or the doting mother who'd taken the time to decorate her daughter's uniform.

 _"Stop at nothing,"_ he reminded himself. "So what do you think of the new Weird Sisters album, Evie?" Harry asked pleasantly as they started down the stairs. He'd caught her humming their summertime hit many times.

"Oh, it's brilliant!" she gushed. "'Potions in Motion' is the best song ever! Every time I hear it on the wireless I want to stop what I'm doing and dance."

"You've got to see them live!" exclaimed Harry, mimicking her enthusiasm. "When they played at Hogwarts everybody was on the dance floor." Except him and Ron, of course, but he didn't feel it necessary to add that detail.

"I'd love that! They doing mystery shows now and nobody knows where they'll show up next. Maybe I'll get lucky."

"I'm sure you will," agreed Harry, dropping his voice low. "When I get out of here, I'll take you to a show." When Evie giggled nervously, Harry felt like the most loathsome creature alive. "I mean it, Evie. I want to dance with you in my arms all night."

As he'd hoped, her step faltered, and Harry took advantage of the slip to grip her arm. He reached his other hand up to tuck a strand of stray hair behind her ear. She stared at him so intently, her sweet doe eyes melting at his smile, that she didn't even notice when his hand dropped to the handle of her wand.

"You're too good for this place, Evie," he said earnestly, an instant before throwing her to the floor. She reached for her wand, then stared up at him in horror when she realised what had happened.

"Stupefy!"

Harry had waved the wand exactly as he had always done with his, but instead of going stiff the girl merely slumped as if she was asleep. _"Great,"_ he thought, _"the wand isn't recognising me. It must not like how I won it."_ Not that he was especially proud of that himself.

Harry spared a regretful glance at Evie before dashing down the steps. He raced past the fourth floor with scarcely a glance at the door, rounded another corner to the third floor, a few more steps, the second. He'd just started down to the first floor when voices floated up from below.

Harry backed up, swung open the second floor door, and ducked inside. He'd hoped to stay out of sight until the stairwell was clear again, so he nearly jumped out of his skin when an unpleasant voice squawked behind him.

"I say, you're not supposed to be here! Do you _want_ to catch Scrofungulus?"

"No, no, please be quiet," Harry whispered desperately to the ghoulish man glaring from the portrait, but it was too late. A stout Healer was already making her way towards him.

"What are you doing he–" The Healer's voice broke off as she took in Harry's outfit. Immediately he tried a Silencio spell, but Evie's wand just sputtered like a car out of petrol.

"Security!" she yelled. "We have a runner! Stop him!"

Harry barged out the way he'd come, flying down the steps faster than any Firebolt could carry him. In seconds he'd passed the first floor and was halfway to the ground floor—and the outside world—when sirens screeched through the halls.

 _"Crap!"_

The doors below were flung wide and through them burst two burly men in Auror robes. Harry turned on his heel and raced back up the way he'd come, narrowly beating them through the door. They were gaining, though, their grunts coming ever closer. Harry knew with all certainty that he couldn't get away. Now he was running for the sake of running, passing shocked patients and frowning Healers alike, just running like he would keep doing until they inevitably took him down...

"Impedimenta!"

The third Auror appeared before him, seemingly out of nowhere. His curse sent Harry hurtling backwards, straight into the waiting arms of his two pursuers. They gripped his arms so tightly he couldn't move, although when the third Auror stepped closer with a cruel smile, Harry did his best to slink away. He recognised him as one of the ones featured in the photograph with the Minister ... with Draco ... but in that picture he hadn't looked quite so menacing, quite so intent on crushing anything that got in his way...

"There, there, that's quite enough." Healer Smithwyck rushed forward and inserted himself between Harry and the Auror. "We appreciate your assistance, but this man is still one of our patients. Now if you'll just help me get him upstairs..."

The Healer cast a sleeping spell and fatigue greater than any he'd ever known overtook him. As his hand went lax, Evie Hellespont's wand fell to the floor.

The very next day found Harry in Madam Wane's office for a special counselling session. This time it wasn't Madam Wane asking him questions, but Millicent Bulstrode. Even before his return to the ward, Harry'd had difficulties separating this Psychical Healer from the girl who'd terrorised him and his friends in school. Now, as she invited him to share his feelings, Harry slouched in the armchair, not even gracing her with a response. His eyes were fixed on the spectacles in his hand, on the lazy orbit of the frames as he rolled one of the arms between his thumb and forefinger. Their lurching rhythm was strangely soothing, bordering on hypnotic. Harry wasn't hypnotized, though. He was trying hard to rein in his temper and wishing, not for the first time, that he'd paid more attention to the Muggle magic show they'd seen for Mr. Weasley's birthday. Arthur had thrilled with delight at even the most transparent illusions. As entertaining as the night had been, Harry would've given the whole of his dwindling Gringotts vault to know how hypnotism worked and how he could use it to mesmerise the Healer.

Millicent, however, remained stubbornly unmesmerised, and just as dogged about getting him to talk. Unlike Madam Wane, who could patiently sit through an entire hour without a single word, Healer Bulstrode only managed to go a few minutes before breaking the silence.

"Keeping your feelings bottled inside isn't healthy, Harry. Are you sure there's not something you'd like to talk about? Anything we can help you with?"

Harry jerked his head up, eyes blazing, somewhat gratified when she had to blink to regain her composure. "Well, you can let me out, for starters," he growled.

Millicent frowned. "I'm afraid that's not possible. You're still exhibiting antisocial tendencies that could be very harmful in the world outside—to you as well as others. And your latest actions only confirmed that. We will keep working on those, I assure you. In the meantime, we should focus on building your life here. I know it's an adjustment, Harry, but we want to help. Many of our residents become very comfortable and start thinking of the ward as their home."

He snorted loudly, but she only looked at him with a forced patience that was meant to be calming. It had the opposite effect. _Fine,_ he thought, _if she wants to talk ..._ "Okay, I have another question."

"Go ahead."

"Why do I have to talk to you? Where's Madam Wane?"

"Healer Wane has been temporarily removed from your treatment. Of course, I'll share our notes from this session should the Hospital Board decide to reassign her." She gestured at the charmed quill transcribing their session. "But it was felt that it might be beneficial for you to speak with someone else, maybe gain some new perspectives. And since I've studied socialisation behaviour, it was decided that I'd be the most qualified to work with you." When Harry snorted dismissively and crossed his arms, Millicent asked, "Is there some reason you don't wish to speak with me, Harry?"

"Other than that you were part of the Inquisitorial Squad terrorising Hogwarts, you mean? You'll excuse me if it's hard to believe you're suddenly all about 'helping people.'" Even as Harry's fingers formed the abhorrent air quotes, he knew his reaction was irrational. He didn't hold a grudge against Draco, after all, and he'd been the most ardent of the bunch. But Draco wasn't the one keeping him prisoner.

"I see," mused the Healer, obviously not seeing a thing. "And did you often feel that you were being persecuted by your classmates?"

Harry gave her a hard look before answering, "I didn't _feel_ anything, I _was_ persecuted. And I wasn't the only one—we were all targets."

"And you called us..." She stole a quick glance at the parchment. "Ah, yes, the 'Inquisitorial Squad'?"

"That's what you called yourself—or, more likely, what Umbridge called you. I doubt you were clever enough to think it up all by yourselves." At her blank look, Harry recited the facts in a mundane voice. "Dolores Umbridge, Ministry stooge, sent to take Hogwarts control away from Dumbledore. Your little band of thugs enforced her educational decrees."

"I remember Professor Umbridge, Harry," Millicent admitted, tapping the magical quill to add something to her notes. "Did you not like her? I always thought she was our best DADA teacher."

Harry curled his left hand into a fist but didn't answer. With his skin stretched tight he could still make out the faint words carved there. If there was ever a time to follow their instruction, it was now.

The witch watched Harry's face, waiting for a response, but finally gave in to her curiosity. "All right then. Well, I don't remember this ... gang. Would you like to talk about it? Who was in it?"

"In our year, besides you, there was Parkinson, Goyle, Crabbe ... and Draco, of course. Draco was the ringleader."

"Draco ... Malfoy?" asked Millicent.

"Right, Malfoy." And although Harry fought against it, he could feel the hint of a smile creep up as he said his lover's name. In the past few days he'd talked about Draco more than in the whole month preceding ... and with the most unlikely people imaginable. He steeled his face, not wanting Millicent to notice anything.

He needn't have bothered. When he glanced up, she was scribbling down something else, and only folded her hands when she saw him watching. "And we—these Inquisitors—enforced Professor Umbridge's rules?"

"Her decrees, yeah. Well, they were the Ministry's decrees."

"And you felt you were being persecuted when the Ministry's _official_ decrees were enforced?"

Harry shook his head. "You're twisting it around. We were at war then—innocent people were dying, Muggles and Muggle-borns, and the Ministry wouldn't even believe Voldemort had come back. The decrees were just stupid. Not letting us learn to defend ourselves, not letting teachers talk to us ... we were being set up to be killed.

"Voldemort? You haven't mentioned that name before. Who is that?"

"Voldemort, You Know Who, the Dark Lord, Tom Riddle." Harry sighed to hear his singsong voice—he'd been spending far too much time with Silas. "He Who Must Not Be Named was the most powerful wizard in the world, and I was supposed to defeat him. And I know you think that's ridiculous, but it's the truth. It's what happened."

"Other residents have mentioned 'He Who Must Not Be Named.' Why do you think you've personalised him like this?"

" _Personalised_ him?" Harry chuckled mirthlessly. "You can't _not_ personalise someone who's been trying to kill you since you were a baby. I would have loved for this not to be personal, Bulstrode, but I didn't have much say in the matter." He shrugged, his irritation thinly veiled. "Oh, what does it matter? It's not like you believe a word I say anyway. You could never understand what it's like to see your best friend cruciated, or watch people you care about struck down..." He paused as the image of Crabbe came to him unbidden. "...or even know how bad you can feel when someone you hate dies. It's not something you can _un-_ personalise. It's about as personal as you can get."

Lines of frustration furrowed Millicent's brow. Harry wondered if he could ever see his former classmate as more than a captor, but it was fruitless. More than ever, his imprisonment chafed like ill-fitting shoes. No matter what he said, he would always be the crazy one, the "mental victim," and wasn't Silas right when he'd said that was a clever term? The sixth floor residents were victims of their own mental competence; the ones that would forever judge them were the ones called sane.

"I wonder..." mused the Healer in an overly soothing tone that made Harry wonder whether some textbook had told her to keep the nut-jobbers talking, no matter what they said, "whether we might find it more productive to turn to your life after Hogwarts. What happened after you graduated?"

"I left for a few years, saw the world, came back. What's there to say?"

"What about your career? You worked in a pet shop, I believe. Is that what you wanted to do when you were in school?"

"No, I didn't want to work in a bleeding pet shop!" snarled Harry. "I was all set to be an Auror, but I didn't have the marks because I was chasing all over the country trying to stop the Death Eaters. I worked in a pet shop because it was the only place I could find work, and I wasn't going to sit around and be some useless layabout living off my dad's money."

The witch swallowed uneasily. "Well, what about your personal life, then? What did you like to do with your friends? What were the things that made you happy, Harry? If we can figure that out, then we can start building a rewarding life here, with us."

 _"Happy?"_ Harry nearly spat the word back in the witch's face, his incredulity making it sound obscene. The nerve she had, to even ask this, to even intrude on the memories he clung to, more precious than gold. "What made me _happy_ was going down to the pub with my boyfriend and then going home and fucking his brains out. And I don't see how you can help me build anything close to that here."

Harry was impressed that Millicent masked her surprise so well, although an awkward smile did give away her embarrassment. "Well, certainly relationships do develop here in the ward, and we try to facilitate them as much as possible."

Harry slammed his fist down on his leg. "I don't _want_ another relationship! I want Draco!"

"Draco? Draco ... Malfoy?"

"That's right, Draco Malfoy." As if hearing Harry's call, an image descended upon him, just a brief glimpse of happiness, of Draco. His body glistened, arching towards Harry like a kukri knife polished to a silver sheen. Harry steeled himself with this vision and, crossing his arms, refused to utter another word for the rest of the session.

Browns in Covent Garden did a booming lunchtime trade, with business professionals outnumbering the tourists and theatregoers who flocked there in the evening. In the converted Westminster Courts, amidst potted palms and marble columns, deals were brokered and schemes shaken on. It was the kind of place where the stakes were so high that two young women could dine virtually unnoticed ... so long as no one overheard their unusual conversation.

"...so even though it's the absolute _perfect_ gift for Granmere, Mama's making me return it. So what if it _is_ Muggle-made? Honestly, doesn't the Ministry have better things to do than telling us where we can and can't shop? Next thing you know, they'll be telling us we can't eat _here_ anymore, and then where will I get my chocolate fix? There's not a place in all of Diagon makes anything like this. But does anybody care? "

The woman waved her fork, laden with a brick-sized chunk of chocolate fudge brownie, to punctuate her point. When her friend didn't respond, Pansy frowned. "Have you even heard a word I've said?"

The other woman nodded absently. "Um ... yeah, I didn't know about that though. Did the Ministry really ban Muggle shops?"

"Haven't you seen the _Prophet_ lately?"

"Not for a few days..." In truth it'd been longer than that. Between work and studying for her Psychical Healer certification, Millicent had little time to keep up with the news. She figured she'd overhear anything of worth in the hospital corridors. And Pansy could fill her in on the rest, as she was doing now.

"Well, the latest Ministry decree forbids magical persons from patronising businesses owned or operated by Muggles. And even Muggle-born shopkeepers have to go through some rigmarole to get approved. Don't see how they can really enforce it, though."

 _"The decrees were just stupid."_ Millicent's patient's voice echoed in her head, while aloud she said, "I don't understand. Why would they want to do that?"

"Merlin knows," shrugged Pansy, "but my parents are behind it all the way. They're such hypocrites. Father even tried to stop me from going clubbing on Saturday."

"Really?" Millicent smirked. "And you went anyway, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. _And_ I reminded him that he bought Mama's anniversary ring from Harrod's."

Her friend chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. Concerned, Pansy asked, "Really, Milli, what's up? And don't tell me it's nothing. I've never seen you like this—you've hardly touched your cheesecake!"

"I don't have an appetite. I guess I've got too much on my mind," replied Millicent, rolling a strawberry around on her plate.

Pansy's fork lashed out like a viper to snap up the rolling strawberry. As Pansy chewed it thoughtfully, she studied her friend's expression. Suddenly her eyes flew open wide. "Millicent Blanche Bulstrode, you sneaky witch! I _have_ seen you like this before—in sixth year, when you were sneaking around with Adrian Pucey!" Her dark eyes gleaming, she demanded, "So, who is he?"

Millicent laughed. "You couldn't be further off the mark, Pansy. Until I finish my cert I don't have time for any relationships."

"Oh, don't be absurd, Milli. I'm not talking marriage here, just a tumble. It'd be good for you."

"Thanks and all, but that doesn't really interest me."

"Ah, I knew it! There's someone serious! C'mon, spill!"

"No, Pansy, really..." She sighed, knowing that when her friend latched onto something like this, it was as useless to try to stop her as to convince a hound to abandon the scent of a hare. "All right, if you must know, I've been thinking about Draco..."

"Draco? Oh, no, Millicent, no, no, no." Pansy shook her head so vigorously that her dark bob snapped like bullwhips in her face. "He's not looked at a woman in years. And the way he is now ... no, you'll just end up getting yourself hurt."

"What? Oh, Merlin, no, I'm not interested in Draco!"

"But you said..."

"I said I'd been thinking _about_ him, not that I'd been thinking of _shagging_ him."

"Well, that's a relief. But whyever would you be thinking of him?"

"It's just something a patient said to me this morning ... made me think of how you said he'd been dumped. It's been a while now, is he any better?"

Pansy shook her head sadly. "To be honest, I'm worried about him. Poor dear hasn't been the same since Harry up and disappeared on him. I wish I could find that scumbag. I'd disappear him so thoroughly he'd never be heard from again."

Her friend grimaced. Pansy had no idea how close she'd hit to the truth. Instead she continued, unaware. "When I saw him last week he was in such a mood. Brooding, like he used to do in school, but it felt ... darker somehow. He kept saying he'd done bad things, terrible things..." The witch frowned at the memory. "I probably shouldn't be telling you any of this. You know how Draco is, never wants anyone to spot a weakness."

"It's all right," Millicent assured her. "I promise I won't tell a soul." But the memory of what her patient had said about the Slytherins was too fresh and she had to ask, "Did he say what these terrible things were?"

"No, not in so many words. He just kept saying he'd too far gone, and that there was no hope. No way out, I think he said. If it was anybody else I might be worried he'd off himself, but Draco would never shame his family like that."

"Are you sure about that?"

Well, yeah ... I think so. Don't you remember how he'd always go on about what it meant to be a Malfoy?" Pansy squinted curiously at her friend. "Why would you ask that, Millicent?"

The witch was spared her answer when the waiter stopped by with their bill. She was relieved; she couldn't share all she'd learned during her studies as a Psychical Healer, the stories of the wizards who'd been driven to desperate measures—horrible things they would do, too, when they thought there was no way out save Dementors or death. Not that Draco was in that same boat, not at all. Millicent was certain that their old friend could never be capable of the things that forced others to disgrace themselves and their families for generations to come.

But what did it take, really? Harry Potter said they'd been at war, after all. Millicent didn't believe him, of course, the man was delusional. She dealt with delusional patients every day, ones who believed that Muggles had been viciously murdered, that bloodthirsty killers had escaped from Azkaban, that vigilante "snatchers" had wandered the country like some rogue bounty hunters ... these stories and more were traded throughout the ward, spreading like some nightmarish contagion through the residents' fragile minds. Not for an instant had she ever thought they could be true. But now, for some reason, Harry's accusations had caught hold of her imagination and weren't letting go.

What if they'd caught Draco in the same way? If Draco was living with that guilt now, thinking his actions had caused Harry to flee, it must be tearing him up inside. Was the Malfoy name enough to help him weather that? Or might that responsibility weighing on his shoulders just make things worse?

Millicent's musings were interrupted when she realised her friend still waited for a reply. "Oh, it's nothing," she said with feigned levity, reaching for her handbag. "I'm sure Draco will be fine. Time heals all hexes, right?" To avoid Pansy's stare she turned to her wallet, pretending that she needed to look when really she could expertly sort the pound coins from the Galleons by touch. When she stole a glance up to see Pansy doing the same, she breathed a sigh of relief.

The last thing she wanted was her friend to get involved in what she was about to do.

Millicent hadn't visited the Diagon quarter for well over a month. It being just a few weeks before Christmas, she wasn't surprised to find the shops gaily festooned, their magically dressed windows inviting her to press her nose to the glass just like she had as a child.

But she wasn't prepared for the signs she saw displayed in every shop window proudly proclaiming "Guaranteed Muggle-free" and "Galleons Only Accepted Here." As she hurried past Djinni's Dessert Den, where in typical wizarding fashion the finer chocolates had a distinctly medicinal flavour, she remembered Pansy's dire prediction that they'd soon be banned from their favourite Muggle haunts. The wizarding world was changing, and she feared she wouldn't like how it turned out.

And that was why she was here today, pulling her cloak tighter against the biting winds and merry shoppers of Diagon Alley, in search of the friend who'd agreed to meet her in the wine bar across from his office. Millicent knew that what she was doing could change everything, although she couldn't with any certainty explain why she felt this way. She also couldn't quite explain why she was doing it. She'd never have considered herself a rebel, but she was a Healer, grounded in a family tradition going back more generations than she could count. It came naturally to her to want to ease suffering, and Draco was clearly suffering.

And then there was the guilt she tried to ignore. As one year passed, then another, the sixth floor ward had simply grown larger with no one being cured, and she'd begun to question the rightness of her work. She truly believed her patients needed help. They'd been touched, Harry more than any of them. She had yet to see another patient with such an advanced persecution complex fed by paranoia. But none of the patients were ever really treated. They were just ... disappeared. And they left behind husbands, wives, children, and friends to forever wonder about them.

At least she could put one friend's mind to rest.

Draco sat alone at a small table, a full glass of wine before him. As soon as he saw her, he rose and kissed her cheek.

"Milli, you're looking beautiful tonight. The hospital suits you."

"You're too kind," she replied, blushing. Draco always could lay it on, but insincere or not she was one of the many who fell prey to his charms. Unfortunately Millicent wasn't able to return the compliment. Draco looked like he was recovering from a protracted illness. His face was too pinched, too pale, making the shadows under his eyes stand out even more. Surprisingly for Draco, who always banked on his appearance, he hadn't bothered to conceal them with a glamour. Whether this was because of their long friendship or a sign of his general apathy towards the world, Millicent couldn't be sure.

"Thanks for meeting me. I know it's short notice."

Draco shrugged. "I was surprised to get your owl, but you said it was important. Would you like some English wine?" He pointed his wand toward the carafe and it rose to pour a watery pink liquid into her glass. "Plonk de plonk," he grumbled quietly, then added loud enough so that anyone in the bar could hear, "but whyever would we want those Muggle-tainted French wines when we have such _delectable_ wines from our own wizarding vintners?"

Millicent braced herself as she lifted her glass. It was vile plonk indeed and she could well understand why Draco's glass was untouched. "Delicious," she said, smacking her lips with a barely concealed grimace.

"So it's been ages since I've seen you, Milli. The last time must have been Pansy's midsummer celebration."

"That's right. Nearly six months now, I guess. Are you doing anything special for this solstice?"

A shadow stole across Draco's face, just the faintest flicker, and then disappeared. "Oh, you know, something always comes up, doesn't it?"

One of Draco's typically cryptic answers. The man was the exact opposite of Pansy. Where her best friend's exuberance made it nearly impossible for her to conceal a secret, Draco's caginess made it nearly impossible for him to share one.

"It always does, yes."

They made small talk for a few minutes, with Draco enquiring about Millicent's brother in the States and telling her about his mother's winter garden. It was pleasant enough conversation, but to Millicent it felt off somehow. Draco seemed distant. His smile was too cold, too polite, as if he'd erected a wall around himself and nothing was getting in or out. She wondered if the news she'd brought might help breach it. Sipping her terrible wine for courage, she decided to dive right in the next time the conversation lulled.

"I guess I should tell you why I wanted to see you."

"Why Milli, how utterly Gryffindor of you."

Draco's droll smile was only a mask to conceal his curiosity, Millicent suspected. She leaned forward and said in a voice only slightly above a whisper, "I know where Harry Potter is."

Draco's wall seemed to crack. It was only for a fraction of a second, and he rebuilt it immediately, but through the jagged fractures Millicent thought she recognised surprise and what she thought might be longing longing. For an instant, she was certain that she'd done the right thing in telling him.

And then he asked, in a voice cold as the winds outside, "And why would I care a fig where he is?"

 _"He's only saying that because he thinks Harry left him,"_ she assured herself. _"Once he knows the truth, he'll want to know."_ "Because he didn't leave like you think he did," she assured him quietly. "He didn't have any say in the matter."

Millicent watched carefully to see if her words sparked some reaction, but Draco's wall was impenetrable this time. He considered what she said for a few seconds, then leaned forward. "And I presume that you're risking your job to bring me this news?" He arched his eyebrow as the witch nodded solemnly, just once. "Well, you needn't have bothered. I'm sure he's better off wherever he is."

"But ... but I don't know that he is. And Pansy said–"

"Millicent!" spoke Draco sharply, raising his hand to silence her. Then he said, smooth as spun silk, "Have you forgotten that you are a Slytherin?"

Her mouth dropped open, not sure what to say. Of course she hadn't forgotten her old house. But what did that have to do with anything?

Draco didn't seem about to give her any clues. Instead he said, "I don't know what that over-imaginative witch may have told you about me and Potter. We had a fling, that's all, and it wasn't even a particularly satisfying one. I'm well rid of him now, and I'll be perfectly happy if I never hear that name again."

He sounded sure—sure enough that Millicent began to doubt whether Harry really was the cause of Draco's misery. Perhaps it had been Pansy's imagination. The woman did see romantic tragedy everywhere. Still, her Healer instincts spurred her to ask, "And you're all right with it?"

"Right as rain."

His clipped words left no room for argument—and she certainly didn't relish being called a Gryffindor again. Draco's features were completely steeled now and he didn't even flinch as he sipped his tart wine. "I think you must be working too much, Millicent. Perhaps you need some time off."

"Oh..." Surprised, Millicent followed the unexpected direction of the conversation. "Well, I'm going to spend Christmas with Myles..."

"That's hardly a vacation. You'll be run ragged by your nephews." Draco thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "You and Pansy should take our villa in Roses this weekend. The Costa Brava is beautiful this time of year. Have you ever been?" When the witch shook her head, Draco beamed. "Well, then, it's settled."

Somehow this conversation had gotten away from her. No, if she was honest, she'd admit that she'd never really had control of it at all. "Draco, that's so nice, but I couldn't possibly..."

"Nonsense! Being a Healer is thankless work, and it sounds like it's getting to you. You could do with a break. Perhaps I'll join you." He slowly swirled the wine in his glass, watching as the thin liquid flowed limply off the sides. "I'm driving myself mad with our potions inventory, what with the Auror Guard dipping into whatever they like. But seems the Ministry isn't too bothered with what's in them, as long as the total number of vials stays the same."

His words were surprisingly deliberate and his gaze intense. Millicent wondered what she was supposed to say, but he didn't give her a chance. "So Roses for the weekend, you, me, and Pats. A change of scenery, a little sun, it'll do us all a world of good."

"Well ... yes, it does sound lovely, and I'd love to get away..."

Draco was right; a change of scenery was exactly what she needed. She was getting too close to her patients, just like they'd warned her against in training. Harry Potter was just one delusional patient among many. After a mini-break she'd surely start feeling normal again, confident that she was performing a valuable service.

And as Draco filled their glasses again and started describing his family's villa, filling Millicent's mind with images of the rugged Catalan cliffs and rich Spanish wines, there was little room for thoughts of Harry Potter.


	12. Abiit, Excessit, Evasit, Erupit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit**  
>  He has left, absconded, escaped, and disappeared_

_"Mini-breaks are the best idea ever,"_ Millicent decided as she walked into St. Mungo's on Monday morning, head high and footsteps light. At some point between Friday evening, when she and Pansy had Flooed through the whitewashed adobe hearth of the Malfoy villa, and Sunday night, when she'd bid farewell to the warm Mediterranean breeze and the cool terracotta tiles, the tension that last week was the only thing holding her together had slid from her shoulders.

The house-elves had outfitted the villa with enough delicacies to keep the girls well fed for a month. They'd dined that first evening on a terrace overlooking the sea, with a bottle of chilled cava to wash away the salty taste of jamón and ripe cheeses, and not once did Millicent spare a thought for St. Mungo's. After a restful sleep the likes of which she couldn't remember having for months, she awoke to the thick accents of Catalan fishermen bringing their boats in to shore.

The morning was marred only by Draco's message that he'd been delayed and wouldn't arrive until Sunday. Pansy pouted at being abandoned, but was pacified when Draco told her of an unspoiled strand that was inaccessible to Muggle tourists. They spent the day there and then danced the night away at a local disco, where Pansy caused a stir—and won them free drinks—by wearing a glamour that made her look like Shakira.

When they'd stumbled home shortly before sunrise, in a taxicab because they were too tipsy to Apparate, they were surprised to find Draco on the terrace nursing a bowl of espresso. "Take that off!" he'd demanded through peals of laughter as Pansy tossed her wild blond mane over her shoulder. In his easy mirth, Millicent was struck by how different he seemed than just a few days before.

Draco had been the consummate host on Sunday—Sunday afternoon, that is, after he'd finally lured them from their beds with the promise of hangover potions. Draco had hired a local Muggle to whisk them all away on a sailboat and they spent the afternoon skimming across the smooth azure waters. Pansy and Draco had flirted like they always did, and though she looked closely Millicent couldn't see a hint of the darkness that Pansy had fretted about. Draco acted perfectly content to lounge on the hull as if his cares had been blown away on the warm sea breeze. When he raised his sherry glass and flashed her a playful wink, Millicent realised that they'd both managed to shake off their blues.

She was determined to hold them at bay for as long as possible now that she was back in London. Not even Harry Potter would threaten her newfound calm, no matter how belligerent or belittling he might be. Nonetheless, as the time for his session neared, she couldn't keep from bracing for what might come.

As a reminder of her weekend escape, she slipped a crêpe-paper rose from the village market into the vase on her desk. She was just tilting the scarlet bud toward her when he arrived, accompanied by St. Mungo's two largest orderlies. One gave him a hard shove inside the door.

"Oi! And what's that in aid of?"

The orderly just smirked and pulled the door shut, leaving Harry huffing over his clothes. They were the same pyjamas and robe he always wore, but he was obviously making a point. When he was content with his appearance, he looked up and, to her great surprise, gave her a blinding smile.

"How're you there, Millicent?"

She smiled back, albeit warily. "I'm fine, Harry. How are you today?"

"Oh, I'm grand, just grand." Instead of taking his seat, he cast a quick look around her office. "Mind if I look around a bit?"

Millicent shook her head, surprised by his interest. She watched as he took a long turn around the room, studying her bookshelves and then staring at the framed diplomas on the wall. He turned to her with a look of admiration.

"You finished your Healer training just three years out of Hogwarts?"

"I did," she said, admittedly confused by this conversation. "And I'm a few months away from finishing my certification as a Psychical Healer."

"Fair play to you," he praised. "I was never much for swotting myself."

"Is that why you took the job in a pet store?"

Harry stammered for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, that's right, the pet store. Don't need much schooling to keep a bunch of owls happy." He turned and motioned to the chair. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Please do."

Last week he'd sat in the exact same place, but with a feigned casualness that masked the ticking time bomb he had inside. Today, his posture signalled that he was perfectly relaxed, even friendly. "So, what do we do in these things, then?"

"These things? Do you mean ... these sessions?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't there be a couch or something like you always see in the films."

"Well... " Millicent wasn't sure what to say, so she decided to answer honestly. "Actually, this field does borrow from Muggle psychiatric research, but we've adapted it to suit the norms of wizarding culture. And frankly, witches and wizards don't usually feel comfortable with the idea of the couch." She looked at Harry. "You didn't want to say very much before. Do you think it would help if there was a couch? I could transfigure one..."

"Naw, I'm all right, thanks. Let's just do this."

"Okay..." said Millicent, a bit shakily. She hadn't been expecting her patient to be so willing. As she read over the previous week's notes, she decided to take advantage of this change of heart and jump right in. "Last week you were telling me about this man Voldemort. You felt as if he was your enemy."

"Oh, old Valdermar, yeah, he's a nasty bugger," agreed Harry vehemently. "Always poking about after a bit of trouble, I can't get shut of him. Guess he won't be bothering me none in here so."

Puzzled, Millicent stared at Harry. He grinned back, his green eyes sparkling behind thick glasses. "This is the person you called..." she read from the parchment, "'You Know Who, the Dark Lord, Tom Riddle, and He Who Must Not Be Named'?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"But I thought you said his name was Voldemort."

"Ah, yeah, right, _Voldemort_ ... well, we called him plenty of things. Moldy Fart, don't forget that one ... oh, and Boldy Tart."

It took every ounce of professionalism that Millicent had to stifle her smile. "And you still feel that he was trying to kill you?"

"I reckon he was, if that's what I told you before."

Millicent frowned. "And you also told me that you were supposed to defeat him." She'd glanced at her notes again; she knew she was using them as a crutch since she could practically recite what they said from memory, but seeing them in black and white helped still her confusion somewhat. "Do you still believe that's the case?

"I do, absolutely."

"Is that why you want to escape so badly?"

Harry stretched his arm out over the back of the chair, utterly comfortable—and utterly opposite how he had been just a week ago. "To tell you the truth, Millicent—can I call you Millicent?—I'm not all that pushed to leave anymore. Everyone seems nice enough, three square meals a day. It's a bit lacking in the way of wide open skies, but you can't have everything, I suppose."

"You want to stay here now?"

"Don't mind if I do. Thought I might settle in. Do you think maybe I could fix up the place a bit?"

"Fix up the place?"

"Yeah, you know, put up something a little more permanent than those curtains. Some real walls, you know—somewhere a man can call home." Millicent stared at him, not sure whether he was joking or not. He sounded serious, but there was a mischievous glint in his eye that kept her off-balance. "Yeah, reckon if I had me own place," he continued, "maybe I could get that Olive O'Leary to stop by sometime, if you know what I mean."

"Olive O'Leary?" The Healer knew she sounded like she'd been hit by a repetition charm, but she couldn't stop herself.

"She's a fine one, all right. I'll be keeping my eye on her."

"But what about Draco?" Millicent's eyes narrowed reflexively in defence of her friend.

"Draco? Who's that?"

The Healer was so unravelled by Harry's incomprehension that she didn't even grace his question with an answer. "Last week you were telling me about your feelings for him." _"And I came this close to risking my job to let him know where you were,"_ she added to herself, not without resentment.

"Ah, Draco, right... Well, it's just that I'm trying to turn over a new leaf, see, and Olive's here and I think we might be good together." He gave her a disarming grin. "You're an attractive woman, Millicent, you must know how it is when you just click..."

Millicent set aside her notes; nothing there could help her respond now. Harry's hostility had completely disappeared, along with all her carefully chosen strategies for dealing with it. Nothing could have prepared her for this complete about-face.

Her patient occupied himself by digging into her sweets jar while she wracked her brain for a possible explanation. This was definitely Harry Potter. His sharp green eyes and unruly hair were a dead giveaway. Even more distinctive was the faint scar on his forehead. Of course, there were plenty of ways a wizard might disguise himself as another person. But to disguise himself as someone in a secret hospital wing that the rest of the world knew nothing about, and then to somehow get past the most elaborate set of security wards in existence to enter that wing ... well, that preposterous notion didn't even bear thinking about.

So this was Harry Potter, no doubt. But if it was, then why was he acting like a completely different person than she'd met last week? Could it be...

Millicent chewed the edge of her thumbnail as a curious thought came to her. The Muggle literature was chockfull of cases of split personalities, but the condition was unheard of in the magical world. Could she have found the first case in Harry? Almost immediately her mind went racing to what this could mean, how it would advance the field of healing, how she might become one of the most famous Psychical Healers in the world...

But Millicent had always been a steadfast thinker, not one to rush ahead without plenty of proof. It was this quality that had gotten her sorted into Slytherin, after all—that and her brother's tenure there years before. And now it stopped her head from imploding at the thought of the recognition this could win her. If this was the case, she would need to demonstrate it.

The Healer waved her wand toward the bookshelf and levitated a heavy Muggle tome on Disassociative Disorders toward her desk. "Harry, I wonder if you'd be willing to answer a few questions for me."

Harry watched the book float past him. "Sure," he agreed amicably, "that's what I'm here for, ain't it?" He winked at her. "But I think I'm going to be needing a couch after all."

"We can do that." She quickly transfigured a side chair into a vintage fainting couch, complete with cracked brown leather so it looked frequently used. With a handsome grin, Harry threw himself on top of it and threaded his fingers behind his head as a cushion.

"All ready, doc."

"All right." Millicent set up her transcription quill and then she was ready too. "Can you start by telling me your full name?"

Confidently he answered, "Harry James Potter."

33-and-a-half hours earlier...

 

 _In the eerie silence not even disturbed by a seagull's squawk, Harry wandered through the seaside village. The half-crumbled buildings reminded him too much of tilted tombstones in an ancient cemetery. He didn't want his mind going to cemeteries; Harry didn't know what fate had befallen the inhabitants, but it looked like they'd been on the losing side of a battle. And the pain throbbing from his forehead told him it was far from over. Instinctively he reached for his wand, relieved when the smooth hawthorn wood pressed against his palm._

 _They came out of nowhere. He blinked and they were suddenly there, before every pile of rubble, every upended tree, Death Eaters all around him. But they were frozen in place, and somehow that was more disturbing than having them move towards him. At least then they would have some life; now they simply stared like ravens on an electric wire. He scanned their masked faces, slowing turning though every nerve him his body screamed not to, as if by not seeing him he could avoid the fate of the villagers ... avoid the fate that he'd always known was inescapable._

 _His fate stood behind him. Voldemort was just as still as the others, but Harry could feel the hatred roiling off his enemy. Harry pointed his wand directly at the centre of the demon's heart and uttered the Killing Curse, but his words did not puncture the silence. A few stray sparks sputtered from his wand and trailed feebly to the pavement. The silence was broken by Voldemort's laughter, the sound of pure evil filling this too-quiet place. And there was another voice. "Kill him!" Draco demanded, but Harry wasn't sure who he was talking to. Then hands were grabbing his shoulders and pinning him down and he tried to struggle but he couldn't shake them..._

"No, no, let me go!" Harry shouted, violently wrenching his shoulder free.

"Medusa's hairpiece, Harry, would you ever quiet down?"

Harry opened his eyes to see a wand floating in mid-air, the faint beam of a Lumos spell shining from its tip. Panicked, he sat up and shuffled back to the headboard, as far from the enchanted light as he could get.

"Gee, Harry, calm down. You'd think you'd seen Blodwyn Bludd himself!" A blurry shape became visible in the dim light—or a head did, rather, while the rest of the body remained as black as the rest of the room.

Harry scrambled for his glasses on the bedside cabinet. Once he put them on, though, he wasn't sure if he still wasn't dreaming. "Seamus?"

"The one and only."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Come to spring your wretched arse from this place. I hope it looks better by day than it does at night." He snickered. "The place I mean, not your arse."

Harry ignored the joke, so deep was his surprise. "Did you ... are you a patient? Did they just bring you in?"

"Well, yes, and no. Let's just say I'm self-committed."

"But how..."

"Much as I'd love to give you the low-down, I'd rather not wake the whole ward. Is there someplace we can talk?"

"Um ... yeah, follow me."

Harry padded to the lavs, and even though he could hear the other man's footsteps just behind him, he half expected to wind up in the toilets all on his own. He was half right. When he turned around in the lighted room it was empty, and for a split second Harry was sure his mind had well and truly cracked. But then he heard a rustling and the air shimmered in front of him; the next thing he saw was his old Gryffindor classmate grinning ear to ear.

"How're you, Harry?"

"I'm a bit shocked, to tell you the truth," Harry admitted, though his grin was starting to match his friend's. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"I told you, I've come to spring you. And we've not got much time. The wards will only be down 'til one—it took me longer than I expected to find this place. We'd best make good use of our time. First off, you'll need this."

He held out the invisibility cloak and Harry took it reverentially. It still felt like he was dreaming, and seeing his fingers come in and out of view did little to dispel that impression.

"Sure hate to be giving that up," Seamus admitted, "it's a fine piece of work, but I reckon it's the only way you'll make it out. Now I need a little something from you. Do you mind?" He touched his hand to Harry's hair, which in the past month had grown long enough to graze his shoulders. "Cortego," he said, and a thick curl fell into his hand. Carefully he slipped it into a little pouch. "That should last me a while."

"What, you're not..."

"Oh, but I am," Seamus insisted. He dug through the pocket of his cloak and Harry heard glass clinking from deep inside the folds. Coming up with a small vial, Seamus dropped a single hair through the tiny opening. He grinned mischievously at Harry, watching as the polyjuice frothed and then clarified to the colour of liquid butter. "Sláinte," he toasted and threw back the potion.

The polyjuice transformation never got any easier, no matter how many times Harry saw it. It was especially unnerving to watch when the target was himself. Finnigan was about the same height, but much broader, and within seconds Harry was staring at the mirror image of himself, save for the fact that he—well, Seamus—was swimming in clothes two sizes too big.

Seamus seemed none too pleased with the transformation. Frowning, he squinted into the mirror; it took a second for Harry to realise what was wrong. "Glasses ... do you have glasses?"

"Oh, right!" He pulled a pair out of another of the cloak's endless pockets. As soon as they were resting on his nose, he broke out into a huge smile. "Brilliant! I really think this could work!"

"Seamus, what do you think you're doing?"

"For the last time, I'm getting you out of here! You'll put on that cloak, head down the stairs, and walk out past the sleeping dummy. I'll stay here and be you, and nobody'll be the wiser."

"But ... I don't understand. Why are you doing this?"

Harry saw regret fill his features. "I've got my reasons," Seamus explained, not really explaining at all. "'sides, you've got to get out of here. Something Hermione said about a prophecy, I understood fuck all about it, but it sounds dead important. Don't worry, they'll explain it all when you get there. Oh, that's another thing I'm supposed to tell you. You're to Apparate to Ron and Hermione's, only be sure you make at least two stops on the way. That'll throw the Eye off your scent."

"Seamus, I can't just leave you in here..."

"Arrah, it's only for a week or so, I'll be fine."

Harry was about to ask why he thought it'd only be that long when he heard footsteps shuffling on the tile floor outside. He threw the invisibility cloak over his head; Seamus tried to look inconspicuous by pulling faces in the mirror.

The door swung open and Goyle padded in, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes in the bright light. He looked at Seamus suspiciously. "You all right, Potter?" Goyle's face was screwed up tight as if his never-too-active brain was working hard on this puzzle.

"I'm all right," Seamus repeated. When the Slytherin didn't move, Seamus smirked, "Going to stand there all night so?"

Goyle scowled and stumbled off to the toilets on the other side of the wall. When Harry poked his head out, Seamus whispered, "Who's your man then?"

"That's Goyle, don't you remember? He was in our class, in Slytherin." After a second's thought, worried that Seamus might not take that house loyalty well, Harry added in a whisper, "He's all right, though." At least he had been since that night—was it only a week ago?—when they'd shared the photograph of Draco.

"Yeah, well, he'd best mind himself," Seamus muttered, striking another pose when they heard the flush from the other side. Harry pulled the cloak back over his head, reminding himself to talk to Seamus about that later—Harry _never_ stood with his hand on his hip like that.

It was only then that Harry remembered the other man was wearing street clothing and a heavy winter cloak. He prayed that Goyle would just chalk this all up to a bad dream and go back to bed, but when the Slytherin appeared with a smug smile like he'd just solved the sphinx's riddle, Harry knew he wouldn't.

"You're escaping, aren't you?" Greg whispered. "You're getting out, just like you said you would."

Seamus frowned. "You're bonkers, you are. Just go back to bed."

"Don't be like that, Potter." Goyle sounded aggrieved. "You said you were going to find Draco. Will you tell him I'm in here? Maybe he can get me out, too."

"I don't know what're you going on about."

Seamus' denial did little to diminish the hope shining in Goyle's face. And Harry had to admit that the longing in his voice had reached straight into Harry's heart. The Slytherin had spent five years inside. He'd just been a boy then, and even if he was on the wrong side he didn't deserve to be forgotten in here. None of the patients did. No matter what happened when he got out, Harry resolved that he would come back for each and every one of them.

"I'll tell him," Harry said, pushing the cloak from his head. "And we'll come back for you, don't worry."

Goyle's jaw dropped to the floor. His sluggish gaze moved from Harry to Seamus and back again, giving Seamus plenty of time to glare at him.

"What'd you go and do that for, Harry?"

"It's okay. Goyle's not going to tell anybody ... are you, Goyle?"

The Slytherin shook his head defiantly. "No, I won't tell no one."

Harry nodded approvingly. "Good man. Now Seamus," he said, turning to his still-glaring doppelganger in the baggiest jumper known to man, "I think we should swap clothes. You don't want to be caught with those in here. You can shrink them to fit me, yeah?"

"I can go one better," said Seamus. "I'll just transfigure yours."

He lifted his wand, but before he could utter the incantation, Goyle lunged for his arm. "No!" he exclaimed. "No wand magic! They've got anti-wand charms floating through the ward, you might set one off."

"Floaters?" When his friend paled, Harry knew that he must only now have realised how dangerous it was to use the Lumos spell to find him. Then Seamus frowned and pointed to his cloak. "But I need me things. How'm I going to hide that here?"

Harry looked frantically around the lavatory. There must be a grate or a cubby-hole, somewhere a few vials of polyjuice could go unnoticed for a week. And that jogged his memory—why was Seamus so certain he'd be here for just a week?

"I've got an idea," said Goyle. "You two switch clothes, I'll be right back."

He was out the door faster than Harry had ever seen him move ... save perhaps that night long ago when he raced from the fiendfyre.

"He didn't wash his hands," grumbled Seamus after he left, already pulling off his jumper. "You sure you can trust your man?"

"What, because he didn't wash his hands?"

"No, you eejit, because this escapade's supposed to be a secret."

Harry pulled the jumper over his hospital-issue pyjamas. "Goyle won't tell, not if he thinks I'm the only way he's getting out. And anyway, why do you think you'll be free in a week?"

"Next Saturday's the solstice. I don't know what's planned exactly, but Ron said I'd be back after that." He pointed at the shelves of flannel pyjamas. "I can help myself then?"

"Yeah, the ones in the middle should fit." Harry reached for the jeans Seamus had kicked off. With forced casualness he asked, "So is Ron working with Draco?"

"Draco? I don't know any Draco."

"What? You mean ... you don't remember..."

"No," he shook his head, "but I've enough in me head to fake it."

Harry grimaced at the Irish accent that came through loud and clear, regardless of the polyjuice. "Just watch how you talk, okay? Your voice sounds enough like mine, but some of the things you say might tip them off."

"Arrah, don't you worry, Harry, I'll have help. Besides," he added roguishly, "long as I keep telling 'em that You Know Who looks like my Aunt June's pimpled arse, I reckon they'll want to keep me locked up."

Harry couldn't help himself—as worried as he might be about what his friend was getting himself into, his snicker turned into a full blown laugh. If there was anybody who might pull this off, it was Seamus.

Harry barely managed to stifle his laughter when the door swung open. Fortunately it was Goyle, and in his arm was a woollen cloak in a deep forest green. "In the beginning they didn't take everything away from us," he explained, turning to Seamus. "I've kept this in a chest under my bed. You can put yours in there, they won't notice the difference. Not sure what you'll do with the wand, though..."

Seamus handed his cloak over, but clutched the ash handle tightly. "I'm not giving up my wand," he insisted.

Greg just shrugged. "Suit yourself, but don't use it." Folding the cloak over his arm, he turned to Harry. "Swear you'll come back for me?"

Harry nodded and extended his hand. "I swear it, Goyle. I will be back."

Greg's dull face came alive as he stared intently at Harry; if Harry didn't know better, he might have thought that he'd made an unbreakable vow with the Slytherin as they clasped hands. "Good luck," Goyle said after a second.

"Right," Seamus interrupted, "time to shift. Harry, straight out the door and down the stairs. Don't forget, two Apparitions, then straight on to the Weasley-Granger's."

"Thank you," said Harry, squeezing Seamus' hand. "And I mean it, I'll be back for you, too."

"You just do what you're supposed to do, Prophecy Boy," joked Seamus. "We'll be just fine in here. Right, Goyle?" he added, winking at the Slytherin.

"Right ... em, Potter."

"And look out for Silas—you can't miss him, he's got rainbow socks," Harry said in a rush, suddenly remembering all the things that he should tell Seamus before he left. "He'll help you out if you get into any trouble. And tell Evie that I'm sorry ... you're sorry. Just apologize, okay?"

"Apologies to Evie, rainbow socks, got it."

"And you need to remem–"

"Got it," said Seamus, rolling his eyes. "Now get out of here before the wards come back on!"

Harry didn't need more urging. He threw the invisibility cloak over Goyle's woollen one and left his friends in the bright room. Picking his way carefully through the darkened ward, he cursed Seamus' too large boots. They were laced tightly and wouldn't come off, but made such a loud clumping sound that he was sure he'd wake the sleeping patients. No one seemed disturbed, though, and in just a few moments he was standing before the main door to the ward.

 _"This is it,"_ he thought, taking a deep breath. Hesitantly he reached out for the door handle, turned it ... and the door swung open. With a long exhalation, Harry slipped through and quietly closed the door behind him.

The hallway outside was completely empty and Harry made his way to the main staircase. He was prepared to duck out of anyone's way, but he needn't have worried. Aside from a floor warden buried in _Witch Weekly_ on the fourth floor and a dozing one on the first, Harry didn't pass a single soul.

This was probably to blame for his overconfidence when he arrived on the ground floor—that, and the clock that read four minutes to one. Seamus had said the wards would be down until one; that left him plenty of time to cross the few feet to the entrance. With a too heavy step, he walked off the carpeting, his boot clomping on the hard tile.

"Who's there?" said the receptionist, her head whipping around. "Is somebody there?"

Harry froze in place. So did the cleaning witch beside the door, her wand paused mid-Scourgify. "Nobody's here but you and me, Gilda."

"No, I heard something, I'm sure of it."

Without a sound, Harry crept back onto the carpeted stair. Another glance at the clock sent a bolt of panic through him: three minutes to one. He sat down and tugged at the boots; even loose as they were, they refused to slide off. Cursing to himself, Harry realised he had to unlace them. Two minutes now. The receptionist had left her station and was wandering through the waiting room. Harry stood in his socks, boots in hand, and holding his breath stepped off the carpet.

"You're not going deaf, are you?" the receptionist wondered as Harry slunk silently past.

"You're not having a tipple without me, are you?" the cleaning witch shot back just as Harry breached the entrance. He never heard the reply.

The street was dark, heavy with the sour scent of beer and urine. Moisture seeped through his socks, from what he didn't want to know, and the chill made him shiver despite Goyle's heavy cloak. A band of loutish Muggles wove their way drunkenly down the pavement, and one ran smack into him. He turned back to curse the impediment, glaring at the empty space where Harry stood.

But Harry didn't mind any of this. He couldn't remember ever being so happy in his life.

He didn't want to spend all night here, though. Apparate twice, Seamus had said, and Harry figured a good first stop would be his flat for a change of clothes and some shoes that fit. He set Seamus' boots on the pavement, spared a quick glance for the sleeping dummy, and then focused on his Stoke walk-up.

It was pitch dark when he arrived, but with a great sense of relief he found the light switch exactly where it should have been. This relief fled immediately, however, when he saw that his once spacious living area was filled with packing boxes and unfamiliar furniture.

 _"What the..."_

It was definitely his flat—the layout was exactly right, the kitchen was that same sickly green colour that he hated, and there was even the black singe mark beside the fireplace from the one and only time Draco had attempted to Floo through the electric fire—but it was definitely wrong. It looked like someone was in the midst of moving—in, he presumed, since none of his things were in sight. _"Oh, bollocks,"_ muttered Harry as he realised that his rent had gone unpaid for well over seven weeks. He only hoped that Kreacher had whisked away his things before the landlord got his hands on them.

He thought of summoning Kreacher then, but muffled voices in the bedroom changed his mind. He couldn't be caught here, not without a wand to Obliviate these new tenants. And bringing the house-elf here could only make matters worse. He had to Apparate again, and quickly. But where?

Draco's flat was his first thought, but he steeled himself against that temptation. Much as he wanted to see his lover, it was far too dangerous. The last thing he knew for certain was that he'd been involved in an emergency meeting of the Death Eaters. Wandless and unsure of his magic was no way to meet Malfoy.

Yet Harry could not deny the pull he felt to Draco. Suddenly he thought of a place where, with any luck, he might at least be able to learn how he was. Surely that could do him no harm, not if he was very careful. With a last frustrated glance around his flat he Apparated to the back garden of the Greenwich Arms.

It was after one o'clock, long past official closing time, but Harry knew Sally and Ged were rather unorthodox with their hours, especially on a Saturday night. He expected to find a few favoured customers still hanging about.

He didn't expect to find the pub darkened and locked up tight. It didn't look as if anyone had crossed its doors recently, either. A bin had tilted onto its side, and judging from the stillness of the night it hadn't happened recently. Rubbish poured from it, spreading out over the cobblestones and reminding Harry of a river frozen midstream. Sally wasn't one to leave something like this, and he read it as a clue as to just how long the pub had been closed.

A deep sense of dread was building in him. He almost didn't want to Apparate to Ron and Hermione's. He couldn't imagine what he would do if anything had happened to his friends, if his freedom had come too late to save them.

An unwelcome image invaded his mind, of burned out buildings and crumbling façades, and Death Eaters watching like curious ravens. Of a quietness too much to bear, as if all the world was muted, and black inky laughter that spilled across that silence. And worst of all, the certainty that he was truly alone in this predestined battle.

Harry took a deep breath, preparing to take the hardest step of his escape. He wiped the nightmare image from his head, instead picturing Ron and Hermione's little farmhouse, tucked into the curve of a peaceful country lane, with its stocky grey stones and trusting white window frames. He imagined the ancient oak in the front garden, the rope swing hanging from a branch like a loose string on a jumper, the flashes of colour along the rock wall where Hermione's flowers blossomed. He pictured his friends happy and whole, Ron standing tall over Hermione, kissing the top of her frizzled hair while she looked down, blushing.

Closing his eyes, and willing this to be vision that met him when he opened them again, Harry Apparated.


	13. Petitio Principii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Petitio principii**  
>  An assumption at the start_

Hemlock Lane was a sleepy little road at the best of times. At twenty past one on Saturday night, even the barn owls had dozed off, leaving the field mice to drowse peacefully in their burrows. So there was no one to hear the distinctive crack of an Apparition, or to see the lone wizard appear as if from nowhere.

Harry had wanted to Disapparate directly inside Ron and Hermione's home like he had always done before, but decided against it. The foot of their laneway was close enough. From this vantage he could see their farmhouse which, to his great relief, looked perfectly normal. The waning moon reflected just enough light that Harry could make out white smoke rising like ghosts from the chimney, and the glow of candlelight reaching out with warm fingers through the kitchen window meant someone was awake. Drawn irresistibly forward, he picked his barefoot way gingerly down the gravel path and knocked on the door.

After a moment he heard a deeply suspicious voice. "Who's there?"

"It's me, Hermione." Realising that his voice boomed in the still night, he added more quietly, "It's Harry."

He needn't have bothered with the clarification. Tumblers were already rolling in the door locks, both magical and Muggle, and before he'd finished saying his name he had his arms full of his friend and was being hugged so tightly he couldn't breathe.

"Merlin, Harry, but it's good to see you!"

Harry let himself hug her back, just as genuinely pleased to see Hermione. And for the first time that he could remember, she pulled away before he did; he would have been content to stand there for longer.

"Hurry, come in, we don't want anyone to see you." She pulled him in and re-secured the locks with one hand; with the other she gripped him tightly, reluctant to let him go after so long apart. "I can't believe you're here! We've been looking everywhere for you; you disappeared without a trace!"

"Not by choice, believe me," Harry replied, but his bitterness was tempered with his elation at seeing his friend. "How did you find me?"

She hesitated for just a second. "Draco," she finally said, frowning at the name. "Ron will explain—oh, I need to let him know you made it, he's been worried sick."

Hermione squeezed his hand once more before rising. Instead of calling to her husband, however, she threw a handful of Floo powder into the fire and said, "The Lovegoods, Ottery St. Catchpole." A second later, Luna Lovegood's face shone from the charred embers.

"Hello, Hermione," the blond girl greeted her, apparently not at all surprised to be Firecalled in the middle of the night. "Funny, I was just thinking of you. Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"I was, but I just found some lavender in the garden. I'm feeling better now. I wondered if you'd like me to bring you some next time I visit."

"That'd be lovely. You're welcome any time."

"I'll see you soon, then. Good night, Luna."

"Good night."

Harry, who'd been watching this exchange intently, turned to Hermione in confusion as soon as Luna disappeared. "What was that all about? I thought you were going to talk to Ron?"

"He's at the Lovegoods'. And they're waiting for us."

Harry's eyes flew open wide. "That was some kind of code," he puzzled out. "You were making sure that it was safe there ... and I'm _'lavender'_?"

Hermione nodded. "Got it in one. We have to be careful about You Know Who's people listening in. And Harry," she added, her eyes shining urgently, "it's very important that you don't say his name. We're not sure if they've jinxed the word like before, nobody's ever tested it, but it's just too dangerous."

"Okay, I wo–" He stopped abruptly as the meaning of her words dawned on him. "What do you mean, 'like before'?"

His friend nodded sheepishly. "I remember, Harry. It's just started coming back over the past month. And I'm truly sorry for not believing you before. It must've been awful for you!"

"It wasn't your fault, though. But you remember everything now? Both versions?"

"Do you mean what really happened and what I believed had happened, afterwards?" When he nodded, she knit her forehead in confusion. "It's the strangest feeling," she said, grasping for a way to explain it. "It's like I read two different history books with different facts. I know only one is true, but sometimes I have to remind myself which one it is." She handed him the issue of the _Quibbler_ that was lying on the coffee table, grimacing. "It's getting easier, though. You Know Who's not letting us forget."

Harry unfolded the paper, but saw nothing extraordinary about it. The front page featured an interview with a shaman in New Mexico; a helpful sidebar offered tips on smudging for your home or office. Below that was an advertisement for a pub and a weather report noting that Pugglewinks would be prolific from the tenth through the eighteenth of the month. "What's a Pugglewink?" asked Harry.

"Merlin only knows," laughed Hermione, "but you won't find anything reading it that way. Didn't you learn anything from Luna?" She turned the print upside down and handed it back, along with a pair of spectrespecs. "Now what do you think?"

Harry warily slid the glasses over his own frames, bracing for the gut-clenching vertigo he was sure would follow. But the sight that met his eyes disoriented him in an entirely different way:

 _"YOU KNOW WHO UP TO NO GOOD!"_

 _Shocked, Harry pushed the spectrespecs up over his forehead. Without their psychedelic perspective, the paper in his hand looked like any innocuous issue of the _Quibbler_ , with "Happy Hour at the Thirsty Toad" in the place where he'd seen the secret article, he asked, "What is this?" _

"It's how we've been communicating. Well, one of the ways." She canted her head back to the paper. "Did you read the article?"

He pulled the spectrespecs back on and the article rematerialised before his eyes, the words floating like streaks of oily colours on wet pavement.

 _"A reliable source reveals that You Know Who's followers are gathering for a special Solstice ceremony. While details of the ceremony are yet unknown, the auspicious nature of this night as a time of rebirth gives rise for concern. This news follows last week's appointment of Antonin Dolohov, known Death Eater and erstwhile Azkaban prisoner, as new head of the Auror Guard. As the so-called "Knights of Walpurgis" show their true colours, can a return of He Who Not Be Named be far behind?"_

In a panic, Harry whipped off the spectrespecs and turned to Hermione. "If they're planning something, we've got to stop them!"

"Of course we do, Harry. Merlin knows there's so much we need to tell you—I promise, we'll explain at the Lovegood's." She gently took the paper from his hand. "You must be exhausted, but if you're up to it, we should go there now. It's safer."

Harry knew he should be tired, but he was still fuelled by adrenaline and excitement; the sleep charm from St. Mungo's seemed ages ago now. "Sure, I'm ready." He took to his feet, but frowned when his jeans started to slide down his hips. "Can you do something about my clothes first, though? I stopped by my flat to change, but everything was gone."

His friend nodded. "Don't worry, Kreacher moved it all to Grimmauld Place when we couldn't find you. I can transfigure your clothes, but let's do it away from the wards, just in case." Hastily she donned her cloak and led Harry through the back door, grabbing Ron's Wellies as they passed the barn. "Magic is tracked now," she explained, helping him pick his way over the stile in the rock wall. "The Guard can trace anything through the Eye."

Harry thought of the news article where Minister Thicknesse praised the reach of the new system—and now it was in the hands of the Death Eaters. "Yeah, I know," he remarked absently, "Draco was working on that."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

Harry was startled by the resentment in her voice. "It's not like he wanted to," he retorted, automatically defending the Slytherin. When she fixed him with a glare, he asked, "What? You aren't blaming Draco for this, are you?"

Hermione's chin jutted out stubbornly; Harry knew that look well, and knew that it meant she was about to argue. He was surprised when she held back. If this was because she was so glad to have him back, he wondered just how long it would last. In truth, he hoped not long—if there was something going on with Draco, and from Hermione's reaction he suspected that there was, then he needed to know. But Hermione didn't offer him any clues; instead she was studying him critically.

"Let's get you some proper clothes." She quickly transfigured the boots and Seamus' clothes to fit, nodding with approval when she'd done. "There, that's better."

"Much better," agreed Harry, slipping on the leather boots. They fit like a glove, and some of his frustration dissipated. "So what's going on at Luna's?"

Hermione shot back a proud smile. "Dumbledore's Army."

The Lovegood kitchen had been rebuilt much as Harry remembered, with its corkscrew staircase in the middle surrounded by round furniture and bright walls painted like an abundant garden. The stalk of one particularly large sunflower stretched up the length of the wall and blossomed in an explosion of purple on the ceiling. It was next to this blossom that a familiar face suddenly appeared.

"Harry!"

Ron took the spiralling steps two at a time, flying off the last few and propelling himself towards Harry. In seconds, he was smothering Harry in a bear hug as tight as Hermione's earlier one.

"I can't believe you're here, mate!"

"I can hardly believe it myself," Harry gasped, much of the wind having been knocked out of him. As soon as Ron loosened his grasp, he said, "Hermione promised you'd tell me how you did it."

"Oh, yeah, it's quite the story," Ron admitted. "Come upstairs and we'll fill you in."

Harry ascended the staircase to the first floor, where Luna and Neville were waiting. More hugs followed, with more exclamations of joy that he'd safely returned. Soon he was ensconced on one of the curved sofas that filled half the second floor. "The printing press has its own house now," Luna explained, noticing his curious appraisal of her restored home. She tilted her head toward the yellow wall that divided the room and made Harry feel like they were sitting in half of a lemon pie. "It was attracting Glubberwings and they made Granny Neville sneeze."

"And you'll be bunking with us here on the couches tonight, mate," said Ron, ignoring Luna's fancies and Harry's unspoken query about Glubberwings. "Hope you don't mind."

Harry shook his head. "Don't mind a bit. I've been sharing a ward with eighty other people." He thought of the man left in his place and a twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. "Not that I don't appreciate getting out of there, but why did Seamus take my place?"

Hermione and Ron exchanged a guarded look, but it was Neville who answered. "He volunteered."

"But why?" Harry couldn't imagine that anyone would willingly go into that place.

"He was searching for someone he'd lost," Luna said brightly, "and so were we."

Harry remembered Seamus mentioning that he had his reasons for breaking into the ward; now it made sense. "Who is it?" he asked.

"His grandmother," Ron said solemnly. "Cassandra Osgoode."

"Callandra." Harry remembered the ancient witch who'd been like a grandmother to everyone in the ward, and who had treated him kindly that night with the newspaper. "She's there, she's been there since the beginning. But how did he know that?"

"He wasn't sure that she was." It was Hermione's turn to talk now. "He just knew his mother had sent her away years ago, thinking she'd lost her mind. Then about a year ago, his mother started remembering. Once she realised what she'd done, she had a kind of breakdown, and she's getting worse."

"That's why Seamus came to us," Ron interjected, "to see if we could find her. He thinks it will help his mother."

"But Seamus said he didn't remember himself."

"No, he works for the Ministry, their wards are too strong," said Neville. "It's only the people whose homes aren't warded who've begun to remember. But he read the _Quibbler_."

"I saw that!" Harry exclaimed, turning to Luna. "That's brilliant!"

The girl—for that's how Harry still saw her; she didn't appear to have aged a day since Hogwarts—flushed with pride. "My father perfected it last year, after our memories started coming back. He thought there must be more people like us out there."

"And are there?"

"More than we'll probably ever know."

The voice came from above; Harry looked up to see Xenophilius Lovegood on the stairway above. He was wearing a terrycloth bathrobe in the precise shade of pink as Aunt Petunia's; in fact, Harry wouldn’t have been able to swear that this exact robe hadn't been nicked from Privet Drive. From underneath his pyjama pants emerged, plaid, but not a tartan that any Scot would ever claim. Blood-red orange, baby blue, olive, and violet all warred for dominance. Seeking respite for his overwhelmed eyes, Harry looked up to the man's face. His hair was as thin and white as it had been years before, but like his daughter, Xeno had changed little over the years.

"I'm very glad you've joined us," he said as he descended, bowing slightly when he reached Harry. "And I want to assure you that this time you will be safe in my home, not like–"

Harry realised the man was about to apologise for turning them in to the Death Eaters years before. He couldn't let him. Xeno had good cause to do what he'd done, and certainly nothing to apologise for. "Thank you, Mr. Lovegood. Believe me, I'm glad to be here." He nodded toward Luna. "I was just saying how impressive the _Quibbler_ is."

Xeno acknowledged the compliment with a small nod. "In the morning I'd like to show you the latest edition. Now, however, it's getting late," he said, pointing at the face of the pendulum wallclock, which yawned in reply. "I suggest that we should all start thinking about bed. The others will be here at nine."

"Dumbledore's Army," Ron answered Harry's unspoken question. "Neville had the idea to start it up again."

Harry looked over at Neville, grinning to see Luna leaning against him, her eyes closed tight. "That's brilliant, Neville," he said, quietly so as not to wake her.

The recipient of his praise was yawning too, but he managed to smile. "Having Harry Potter back will do wonders for morale."

"Mr. Lovegood is right, though, we should get some sleep," Hermione said, and Harry realised that she looked exhausted, too.

He was feeling tired himself, but his head was still abuzz with questions. He glanced over at Ron, who read his mind.

"Feel like stretching your legs before bed, mate?"

"Love to."

They bid the others goodnight—Harry cocking his eyebrow to see Neville following the Lovegoods to the loft above—and left Hermione to transfigure the sofas into beds.

Once outside in the overgrown garden, Harry took a deep breath of the first fresh air he'd had in months. Freedom had a heady sweet scent; after the close air of St. Mungo's the night jasmine felt almost overwhelming.

Ron clapped his arm around his shoulders. "Merlin's beard, Harry, don't you ever disappear like that again. You had us worried sick!"

"I'll try not to," Harry laughed, then remembered the circumstances that had taken him away in the first place. He touched his scar, dormant now but ready to erupt without notice. "He's back," he said glumly.

"I know," said Ron, equally glum. "Well, I don't _know_ know," he clarified, "but there's definitely something going on."

At first Harry wasn't sure what to make of Ron's statement, then it hit him. "Wait ... you mean your memories haven't returned?"

Ron shook his head. "I'm still working in the Ministry. The memory charms are thick there; nobody's been able to break through them that I know of—unless they've done it and are keeping quiet, which is possible. It'd be career suicide."

"Then Hermione...?"

"She quit just after you disappeared. Once the charm was removed from our home wards—the only good thing that git Malfoy's ever done—she wanted to see if her memory would come back, too."

Harry was stunned by Ron's words. He couldn't believe that Hermione would throw over all her ambitions for something as risky as this. But more, he was shocked by the venom in Ron's voice when he spoke of Malfoy. "Ron, what's happened with Draco?"

"Bastard sold us out, didn't he? Getting all cosy with you before packing you off to St. Mungo's. Not to mention loading the wards up with all kinds of charms. He was even bragging about how the Eye could watch our every movement."

Harry remembered how smug Draco could be about his accomplishments, and certainly getting such a complex charm to work would have been cause for some conceit; he himself had felt proud when he read about Draco's success. But bragging? Harry wondered if Ron had simply misread him. "He's been giving you information about the Eye, then? That must mean he's been helping you. And Hermione said he helped you find me."

Ron snorted. It wasn't a pretty sound; the Snargaluff made an offended "harrumph" as they passed. Ron ignored it. "Pretty easy to do when Ferret Face put you in there in the first place."

His tone hit Harry in all the wrong places. "Don't call him that," he rebuked his friend sharply, not even bothering to answer the charge against his lover. Admittedly, he had his own doubts, but they certainly didn't extend to being sectioned on Draco's word.

"You're right, calling him Ferret Face is an insult to ferrets," said Ron viciously. "Malfoy's a conniving bastard, same as he was before. Good thing he's back with his own now. We can take them all down at the same time."

Something snapped in Harry, brittle and sharp. Maybe it was the uncertainty that he'd felt strangling him in the hospital, or maybe it was Ron's unwavering conviction. Whatever it was, before he realised what he was doing, he had his fists balled in Ron's cloak and was pressing him against the crab apple tree. He heard the Snargaluff exclaim, "Oh, my!" but it didn't deter him.

"You don't even _remember_ how he was before!" Harry spat out. "Just something you've heard, isn't it? Was it Hermione that told you? Or Neville? Well, I'm telling you, it's not true. You know he's..." _"...changed ...not a Death Eater ...important to me..."_ Harry faltered, unsure what he wanted Ron to understand, unsure what was really the truth anymore. He released his grip on his friend and stepped back, feeling his anger sputter out like a deflating balloon. "You're all assuming the worst, you don't even know ... you can't know..."

"Harry, I know you think you know him, but you don't realise what he's been up to. I went to see him right after you disappeared. He didn't seem bothered by it at all—or even surprised. That made me suspicious—that's when I talked to Hermione. She told me about your history ... your _real_ history." Ron exhaled with an air of restrained exasperation. "And yeah, Malfoy did tell me about the charms in the Eye, in the same breath when he told me that I couldn't trust him."

"That's just Draco. He's a Slytherin. He couldn't come right out and say which side he was on," Harry insisted, although his faith was flickering like a faulty light bulb.

"He could've helped us get you out himself, instead of insisting we send someone else in. He could've done it easily enough, he could've gotten everybody out while the wards were down, but he wouldn't even hear of it. Just told us the plan and left us to make it happen."

"He must've had some reason, then. He's always working every angle..."

"He doesn't want to see you anymore."

Harry looked up sharply, willing himself to have misheard the words, but Ron repeated them, firmly, without mercy. "He said he'd only tell me where you were on the condition that you'd disappear. He said he never wanted to hear the name Harry Potter again."

 _"I don't believe you!"_ Harry wanted to scream, but the frightening thing, the thing that clenched his insides and felt like it was wringing him dry, was that he did believe. Ron had no reason to lie. And Draco ... well, Draco had every reason to. Harry hugged his arms against his chest, testing the truth of what Ron had said, and finding no way to combat it aside from empty excuses, all grounded in an unfounded faith that Malfoy—son of Voldemort's most trusted follower, proud bearer of the Dark Mark, rival and enemy for most of Harry's life—had changed. "He's one of them?" he finally asked.

"He is," Ron said, and his voice was gentler now. "I'm sorry."

Harry didn't know how to acknowledge this sympathy, save for an empty nod. He was empty inside, and suddenly overcome with an intense feeling of weariness. The night had not yet surrendered to the dawn, but the waning moon meandered westward and Harry knew it would be only a short while before morning came and he was expected to play the hero again—The Boy Who Fucking Lived, only he felt anything but alive at this moment.

"We should probably go in, before Hermione comes looking for us."

And wasn't that the reason that Ron had always been his best friend? That he might blather on about something until you were ready to tear your hair out, but when it counted he always knew when to shut up? Harry didn't speak, he just nodded and followed him into the Lovegoods' strange little house, up the winding staircase to the lemon-yellow room where Hermione slept under a shining Lumos spell. Ron waited until Harry tucked himself into the bed on the far side of the room before whispering a "Nox" to his wife's wand and a quiet goodnight to him.

Harry shut his eyes and waited for emptiness to take him. It was long in coming, and when it finally did it wasn't the pitch black he saw a shimmering grey snake coiling around a man's shoulders, his forked tongue flicking through strands of silvery-white hair.

"The third war will begin in exactly one week. And you know what? I'm glad."

Neville's announcement was met with shocked silence. Harry looked out across the meeting room that Hermione had transfigured from one of the crab apple trees, taking stock of the forty-odd people that now called themselves Dumbledore's Army. There were a good few here that he knew and trusted: Dean Thomas, Angelina Johnson and her sister Serena, Michael Corner and his wife whose name Harry couldn't recall, and the entire Weasley clan, including Bill and Fleur.

"I'm glad, because this has been going on long enough. This isn't some sudden reappearance. The signs have been there for years—since the very beginning. Whether you remember the past or not, you've all seen it. These threats to our homes, to our loved ones, to our lives. This Eye that promises we'll be safe, so long as they're watching. This prejudice against Muggles and Muggle-borns—even against those of us who like Muggle _things_."

Harry cast a quick look out at one member of the audience who he knew, but didn't trust, although Hermione said he had very good reasons not to want You Know Who to come back to power. Blaise Zabini was following Neville's speech intently, nodding slightly. Harry wasn't sure what an Egyptologist did, but apparently it was too close to Muggleness for the Dark Lord to approve.

"This isn't a surprise to those of us who remember," Neville continued. "And we remember why we can't allow it again."

But there were many more new faces, mostly older ones, including Gran Longbottom, who sat gripping her wand tightly in her fist as if she expected the Death Eaters to barge in at any moment. They hailed from every part of Britain with no connection other than their memories of the earlier wars. Harry couldn't help wondering how such a motley bunch could ever be expected to go head to head with Voldemort.

"I know what you must be thinking," Neville said, as if he'd read Harry's mind. "'We're just ordinary witches and wizards. How can we stop the darkest wizard to ever threaten our kind?' Probably a lot of you are wondering, 'Why me? How did I get myself into this?'" Neville paused dramatically, and Harry realised how far this once-timorous boy had come. "You got into this, each and every one of you, because _you_ —unlike everybody else out there—know what will happen if you don't.

"The first Dumbledore's Army started over eight years ago. It seems like a long time ago, doesn't it? We were all students then. Most of us hadn't even passed our O.W.L.s. None of us—save Harry here—knew what we were getting into. But we knew we had to stop what was happening. And we learned what we needed to know.

"Every one of you here today is better prepared than we ever were," Neville said, and Harry heard the pride shining in his voice.

 _"This might as well be called 'Longbottom's Army',"_ he realised. Neville had been pouring his heart and soul into training these people for the past three months—just as he'd kept the DA going during their last year at Hogwarts. He had a right to every ounce of pride he felt.

"Every one of you has been practicing the defensive spells," Neville continued, "and I doubt there were ever as many Patronuses in one place as there were at the last meeting. More importantly, I've seen how you work together. I've seen how you trust each other. I've seen how every single one of you will fight for the person beside you. That's why you're not just ordinary witches or wizards. You're part of Dumbledore's Army!"

Harry felt his heart stir at Neville's rousing words. For a moment he was full of hope, believing that they just might have the strength to finally defeat Voldemort. He looked out at the room and tried to see them in the same way as Neville did, not as a ragtag bunch of volunteers but as a trained force. When he did, though, he saw other faces: Colin ... Fred ... Remus ... Sirius ... Snape... Would these new faces just be added to the list of those who had fallen before?

Neville's voice, more forceful than even before, shook him from his melancholy. "I'm not saying that what we're going to do will be easy. Yes, I'm scared of what we're going to face. We might not be here after next week." He paused to let this dreadful fact sink in. "But remember, courage isn't about not being afraid—it's about doing what's right even if you're scared. And each and every one of you is here because what we're doing is right. I would gladly put my life into any one of your hands."

 _"A perfect speech,"_ thought Harry, soundly impressed with both Neville's words and the effect they seemed to have on the crowd. The room was positively thrumming with that undercurrent of barely restrained magic that he hadn't felt since the last Quidditch World Cup. It was a powerful feeling, and one which, if harnessed, might just give them a fighting chance.

He hated, therefore, to be the one to destroy the speech's impact. But when Neville asked him if he'd like to take a group to start the training, he had to hold out his empty hands.

"I ... I don't have a wand."

Every eye in Dumbledore's Army turned on him. Several glared at him as if he were an impostor snuck into their midst. Others just looked defeated, wondering if this was the best the so-called hero of the wizarding world could come up with. Molly Weasley looked at him with such a pitying gaze that he wanted to slink into one of the knotholes in the floor.

But Neville recovered quickly. "That's all right. Luna, Hermione, Ron, and I will each take a group. Partner up, people, and let's show You Know Who what we've got."

As the room swung into action, Harry felt Hermione's hand on his arm. "Send Kreacher for your wand," she whispered. "If he can't find it, then we'll go tomorrow to see Mr. Ollivander."

Harry nodded and, not wanting his presence to be any more distracting, left the meeting hall. Sitting on a garden bench surrounded by an astonishing profusion of winter-blooming flowers, he summoned Kreacher. The house-elf appeared almost immediately.

"Master has returned, just as the Mudblood said he would!" he exclaimed happily.

"Hush, Kreacher. You know you're not supposed to call Hermione that." He squinted at his servant. "You've been spending a lot of time with Mrs. Black, haven't you?"

"The gracious lady is kind to keep me company while Master is away," explained Kreacher, making Harry roll his eyes.

"Well, I'm back now, so you need to do what I say." Kreacher looked downcast, and Harry felt bad. Seems he was letting everybody down today. "Um, I do owe you thanks, though. For packing up my stuff. I really appreciate that."

Kreacher's smile made his shrivelled cheeks bulge to his ears. "Kreacher is setting up home for Master. Making the blood-traitor's house just like Master's Muggle flat."

"Kreacher!"

The elf drew back contritely. "Kreacher is just so happy to have Master back, Kreacher is forgetting. Will Master be coming to see what Kreacher has done?"

While Harry was perversely curious to see what might pass as home decorating in the house-elf world, he shook his head. "Not yet. I need to stay here for a bit. But I do need you to do something very important."

"Of course, Master."

"I've lost my wand. I had it on the bus before I collapsed and I must've dropped it there. Do you think you could find it for me?"

"Kreacher will find Master's wand, yes. Kreacher will go to the cave where the bus creatures live and bring it back to Master. It would not do for Master to lose two wands."

"Thanks, Krea–" Harry froze. "What do you mean, 'two wands'?"

"Master once had a wand of holly," his elf said matter-of-factly, "but since the war Master has used the hawthorn wand that belonged to young Master Malfoy. Losing another wand would make Master look careless."

"Since the war? What are you talking about?" Harry grabbed the house-elf by the shoulders. "You remember the war?"

Kreacher was the picture of confusion as he blinked watery eyes at Harry. "Kreacher remembers all that Master remembers."

It was what Kreacher had always said, whenever Harry had asked about anything from before. Harry had never bothered to take it literally; now he realised what an omission that had been. "Of course you do, Kreacher, of course you do," he said, shaking the house-elf gently as he laughed at his folly. "Just out of curiosity, you wouldn't know what You Know Who is up to nowadays, would you?"

"No..." The house-elf looked extremely uncomfortable, eyeing Harry warily as he would a dragon. Then hesitantly, as if hoping that Harry wouldn't wish it, he added, "Would Master want Kreacher to try to find out?"

As reluctant as Kreacher was, Harry considered it; it mightn't be a bad idea to have the house-elf pop over to the Malfoy Manor, if he could come up with a good excuse. Tarts for Draco wouldn't fly this time. "Right now, no. Just help me find my wand."

"Kreacher will do that right away, Master."

"Oh, and Kreacher..."

"Yes, Master?"

"Take care not to scare any Muggles."

If house-elves could smirk, Harry was sure that would be the expression on the old elf's face. "Kreacher will try, Master."

After the elf was gone and the echo from his Disapparating swallowed by the soft chirping of sparrows, Harry wondered what to do with himself. This was the first time he'd been alone—completely alone—in over six weeks. He probably should have relished it, but in truth he felt very ... lonely. If he sat here, he'd just end up thinking, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Draco had gone over to the other side, so that was that. Although technically it wasn't the _other_ side—it had been his side all along. Neither of them had changed—they were standing in exactly the same places where they'd been in the beginning.

But the war had changed them, had changed both of them. Harry could still remember those dread visions he'd seen through Voldemort's eyes, of Draco, shocked into a state of resigned terror, reduced to being the tool to mete out that monster's torments. The sight had sickened him then, when Malfoy was still his enemy. Now, it was almost unbearable.

 _"If I was really like that, then I can't blame you for hating me. I did some terrible things."_

Malfoy's voice tugged at his memory. He knew now; he must know. Hermione said that her memories had overlaid, one atop another. Draco would remember ... everything. Harry imagined how his memories must look, angry schoolyard taunts mingling with lazy morning kisses, fingers caressing an escaping snitch and frustrated curses at Muggle zippers, his enemy slicing him open in the bathroom, his lover opening his body to him in the shower, remembrances piled on top of each other like a mound of autumn leaves. Knowing what he must know, how could he have gone back?

Or what really bothered him even more, though he would be loathe to admit it—how could Draco have given Harry up?

Yes, thinking was definitely a bad idea. He needed to act, like Neville and the others were doing. He looked at the practice room a bit wistfully. It had been transfigured with a muffling charm, but he could still hear the occasional thumping of bodies against the wood when the spells got out of hand. He hoped that there was at least one trained Healer among the group.

Harry thought for a moment about joining the training, but without a wand he was just this side of useless. While debating whether to go anyway, his attention was caught by a bumblebee as big as his thumb, picking its way through the Lovegood garden. The sight was strangely comforting; Harry remembered their early days at Hogwarts, when Dumbledore's seeming omniscience had Ron convinced that his Animagus form must be a bumblebee following their every move.

Now it was Harry's turn to follow the bee, who didn't seem to mind having a two-legged admirer. It led Harry, flower by flower, around the curve of the castle wall. Jus past there, bermed into the fold of the hill, Harry saw a bright blue door, half-open, Dutch style. A pink hydrangea beside the door drew the bee, with Harry two steps behind. As he got closer he heard the roar of an engine and what sounded like metal colliding, as though cars were crashing into each other again and again in a steady rhythm.

Harry peeked over the bottom half of the door to see Mr. Lovegood leaning over a drafting table, wand tucked over his ear. Now he knew where Luna had picked that up. Harry knocked on the doorframe, but the sound was lost in the din. He tried again, louder. Still no response, so finally Harry cleared his throat and called, "Mr. Lovegood?"

The man jumped back, snatching the wand from his ear as fast as lightning. But when he saw who was there, he smiled. "Harry, do come in. I've something I'd like to show you."


	14. Damnatio Memoriae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Damnatio memoriae**  
>  Lit. damnation of memory  
> Removed from the remembrance_

_"Harry, do come in. I've something I'd like to show you."_

Harry swung open the half-door and stepped inside. The printing room was much larger than when he'd seen it last, in the Lovegoods' home, but it was no less crowded. Paddles and papers flew about in what at first glance seemed a random—not to mention violent—chase across the room. As Harry watched the newsprint filled with text and pictures before diving into a vat that spewed out folded copies of the latest _Quibbler_. Xeno Lovegood stood amidst the melee, waving a Silencing Charm as Harry drew close. He seized a paper from atop the growing stack.

"This is our latest edition; it'll go out tomorrow. What do you think?"

The front page articles definitely lived up to the _Quibbler_ 's reputation: a sighting of Purple-Billed Tillywonks in the Scottish highlands, a rare avian-reptilian creature whose claws held magical conductive properties; hints for avoiding infestation by Squiddlypuss Yarks, especially active because of a certain alignment of stars, by coating doorways with dragon saliva; an outbreak of Wump-Mumps among teenage witches and wizards, with cleansing witch hazel washes prescribed as treatment.

"You'll need these," Xeno said, holding out a pair of psychedelic spectacles. Once Harry was wearing them, and his eyes stopped spinning, the words appeared clearly:

 _"POTTER RETURNS, PREPARES TO DEFEAT YOU KNOW WHO ONCE AND FOR ALL"_

 _"Harry Potter, better known as The Boy Who Lived, resurfaced today after being missing for over eight weeks. Friends feared his demise, but after an anonymous tip revealed his whereabouts they staged a daring rescue from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries._

 _"According to our sources, Potter was not the only resident at St. Mungo's. Nearly one hundred others are still being held there. Many, unaffected by the_ Damnation Memoriae _curse in May 1998, have been detained for years; others were institutionalised after the curse faded._

 _"Now that the Boy Hero has returned, he is expected to lead the charge against You Know Who. As we reported earlier, You Know Who has planned a tete-a-tete with his supporters for Midwinter..."_

Xeno cleared his throat, obviously awaiting Harry's reaction to the article. When it wasn't forthcoming, the elder man said, "We didn't think you'd mind this news going out as soon as possible. It's sure to bring hope to a lot of people."

"I'm not a Boy Hero." Not even a single day of freedom and already he was expected to assume his position as a figurehead.

Mr Lovegood stared at him long enough that Harry began to feel uncomfortable. At last he said solemnly, "They need you, Harry."

Harry began to protest, but Xeno held up his hand. "No, listen, Harry. I've watched people coming here for weeks now, all searching for answers. They wanted to know what had happened—why they could remember when no one else could. But more than that, they wanted to know what had happened to _you_. 'Where's Harry Potter?' they'd say. And when they heard you were lost, it was like telling them they all were."

 _"Maybe they are,"_ But Harry couldn't admit that. "Does it help to know what happened?" he asked instead. "Knowing doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything. Knowing means you aren't crazy, you've just been spelled."

Harry looked back at the article in his hand, at the strange words he'd read there. "What is this spell?"

"Damnatio Memoriae," Xeno said excitedly. "It harkens back to Ancient Rome. Emperors used it to wipe out memories of someone—usually their predecessors. I discovered it in a little spellbook from Flourish & Blotts. Don't even remember picking it up, but the blessed Parcae must have guided my hand. It was your friend Mr Zabini, though, who connected it to the horcrux."

"He's not my friend," Harry said, but frowned at a much greater problem. "And what do you know about horcruxes?"

Xeno noticed his confusion. "Don't worry, Harry. There are just a few of us in on it. Your friends worked out that you were the last of the horcruxes, and perhaps even an accidental one at that. Either that, or You Know Who didn't realise the others had been destroyed. If he had, he would not have tried to kill you."

Harry narrowed his eyes. This is what he'd suspected from the very beginning, that Voldemort's soul had saved him. It had been something he'd never mentioned to his friends—something he'd never wanted to admit to himself. But Xeno took his frustrated expression as confusion, coming to the rescue with an explanation.

"The horcrux is a portion of a soul, you know, and you can't kill your own soul. When he tried, it sprung back into his body, such that it was. Attempting soul suicide seriously weakens a wizard, though, and Damnatio Memoriae was a failsafe. The memories connected to him were wiped away, which gave him plenty of time to recover with no one suspecting a thing." He shook his head. "I shouldn't say 'no one.' There were always a few unaffected by the spell, and as it wore off there were more. But with the wards charmed to renew it, it's had some remarkable staying power."

He sounded impressed, and Harry guessed that he should be as well. It was a complex spell, and he had to ask the question that had bothered him in the ward. "Why didn't they just Obliviate everyone again when they remembered?"

"Ah, because Damnatio Memoriae isn't simply an Obliviation. It didn't just remove thoughts of You Know Who—it filled in the missing pieces around everything that disappeared. Your friends didn't remember hunting for horcruxes during your last year. They thought they'd been at Hogwarts the whole time, because that's where they would have been under other circumstances."

"So what people remember ... that's how things would have been, if he hadn't...?"

"It's not something we'll ever know for sure, Harry, but yes, that's the general idea."

Mr Lovegood was right: knowing did change things. Maybe the unambitious life he'd led hadn't been an anomaly, a sullen dénouement after a childhood of daring feats. Without Voldemort, he'd have never had any impetus to join the Aurors—or really, to do much of anything. He'd have ended up like he did, working in a dead-end job, concerned about little other than getting by. Maybe he was more like his father than he knew, when everyone wasn't insisting he be a hero. Harry wasn't at all sure that he liked that about himself.

At that moment Kreacher appeared with an explosive pop and proudly presented Harry's wand. "Kreacher has found Master's wand. It was deep in the bowels of one of the bus creatures, but Kreacher has found it."

"Well done, Kreacher!" Harry exclaimed, his melancholia dissipating. The wand warmed immediately to his touch, as if it was happy to be back, too. Harry ran his fingers along the smooth wood, thrilling at the sparks that crackled from the tip and landed on his skin with sizzling little stings. "No one saw you, did they?" The house-elf didn't answer, which earned him a stern glare. "Kreacher?"

"Stupid Muggles, tiny Muggles," the elf muttered. "They pointed at Kreacher, wanted to touch his ears." Kreacher's ears drooped, his short arms reaching up to protect them. "Then the bigger Muggles came, said Kreacher belonged to Santa Claus. Kreacher said he serves only Harry Potter. Then Muggles left him alone."

"They thought you were one of Santa's elves?" Harry stifled his amusement at the image of his house-elf surrounded by Muggle children.

The elf nodded dismally. "Do you know this wizard, Master?"

"Not personally," said Harry, "but I've heard good things about him. It's no dishonour to be mistaken for one of his ... servants."

That seemed to mollify Kreacher and his ears perked up just a bit. "Then Master is not displeased?"

"Not displeased, no," Harry reassured him, then realised that this might not be so easy to explain away when it wasn't a week before Christmas. "But you must be more careful in the future. Santa might be angry with me if he thinks I've taken one of his elves. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"Oh, no, Master. Kreacher would never malign Harry Potter's good name."

Harry wondered at the elf's phrasing; although he couldn't detect any sarcasm, it sounded too close to something Mrs. Black might say for his comfort. Kreacher was definitely spending more time with her than was good for him. But that wasn't something Harry could deal with now. Later ... afterwards...

"Thank you, Kreacher," he said dismissively. "That will be all."

The elf Apparated away, leaving Harry alone with Mr Lovegood. The editor was busying himself straightening the corners of a stack of newsprint and Harry walked over to help.

"House-elves apparently remember everything, did you know that?" Harry remarked absently. "And I suppose portraits do as well. Funny, I never thought to ask them anything."

"You'd learned not to bring it up," he replied in a kindly tone. "We all did; we just tried to get on with our lives. Oh, there's something else I think you'll want to see." Mr Lovegood pointed his wand at a pile of newspapers that immediately began to reshuffle themselves. When the one he wanted came to the top, he whisked it to Harry. "Have a look at that—you'll see that You Know Who kept himself busy."

Harry put the spectrespecs back on. His eyes had adjusted to using them and there was almost no disorientation now, only the words he was supposed to see:

 _"YOU KNOW WHO BEHIND SECURITY FEARS; SQUIB TELLS ALL"_

 _"An unofficial investigation by Aurors Neville Longbottom and Ronald Weasley has uncovered disturbing news concerning the violence of the past five years. While investigating a brutal attack on Editha Longbottom, aged 106, the Aurors apprehended Hardial Baines, a Squib aged 34, who was not only involved in the attack but identified a trail of crime and malevolence leading directly to You Know Who."_

With growing trepidation, Harry read how Baines was approached by a "businessman" calling himself Tom Riddle. Riddle had assembled a force of Squibs and errant wizards to strong-arm individuals and shopkeepers. But unlike most protection rings, money—and yes, it was a profitable racket—was simply a bonus. The goal was terror. Baines referred to it as "a cloud of fear" that the article said darkened even more after the group pulled off several successful attacks on Gringotts.

Harry looked up in alarm. "So that's how he got everybody to start warding their homes. That extended the curse." And later, monitored the magic. "But how did he know it would happen like that?" The wards had come about as an accident, after all. _"I started mucking about with our wards,"_ Draco had said, _"just something to keep me busy..."_

"It's hardly a surprise, is it? The warding companies are all owned by Death Eaters."

 _"Order members all run in the same circle..."_

From that perspective, the evidence was damning. But Draco hadn't known—he couldn't have known. His memories had been wiped, just like everyone else's, weren't they? And Draco had gotten him out, hadn't he? He wouldn't have done that if he'd been on their side, would he?

Harry was tying himself in knots thinking like this. It was a feeling he hadn't had since leaving Hogwarts, all the "what ifs?" and "what abouts?" colliding in his head. He'd only been able to escape them by leaving England and living amongst people who'd never heard of Voldemort and who saw The Boy Who Lived as just another wizard searching for adventure in their lands.

He couldn't escape now, there was too much at stake. But he couldn't let himself be overwhelmed with questions about Draco's loyalty either. He refocused his attention on the other wizard, watching as he skilfully levitated a stack of papers to the corner. "How long have you remembered the truth, Mr Lovegood?" he finally asked.

"Call me Xeno, please. Well, we've never had this place warded. And Luna never quite lost everything, although she did think she was being pulled between different worlds at times. That often happened to her mother so we weren't too bothered, but about three years ago my memories returned and we knew it was no coincidence. We did some checking around and discovered others. Mostly those who live outside the mainstream wizarding world: the magical folk in Ireland, all the Travellers we've ever spoken too, the ones who steer clear of Diagon..."

Harry nodded, remembering what Ron had said about the strong wards in the Ministry. "And Neville?"

"Neville, he took a leave from the Aurors after Editha was attacked. They were staying with us here. Within about a week, their minds were clear and he refused to go back." Xeno shrugged. "It's not an immediate process, remembering, and sometimes it can take longer. But if the spell's expired and no Memory Charms are keeping it active, you recover fairly quickly."

"So if the charm in the Eye was disabled, all the people with warded homes could remember?"

Xeno looked up from his work, then used the tip of his wand to scratch his head. "You'd have to take out the ones in the Ministry as well, and all over Diagon, but yes, theoretically it's conceivable. Actually getting to them is another matter entirely, though."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. This was just the kind of strategy that he needed to pull himself from his morose thoughts—and for which he had always relied on his friends. He decided that he needed to seek them out now. If he was supposed to play the part of the Boy Hero, he really should know what kinds of plans had been laid.

"Thanks, Mr ... Xeno. I'd better let you get back to work. I'll go see how the training is coming along."

"You do that, Harry," the man called, resuming his levitations. As Harry closed the door behind him, Xeno lifted the Silencing Charm and the machines once again clamoured for his attention. Harry smiled, wondering why Xeno let the noises rage on when he was alone. He must have just grown used to it.

You could grow used to anything, he supposed.

Harry started back up the path to the house, practicing wand movements with each step. While he'd missed his wand in St. Mungo's, it was only now, feeling his concentrated magic thrumming through the taut unicorn hair in the springy hawthorn wood, that he realised how much. There must have been some powerful charms in effect at the hospital that kept the vulnerable patients from demanding their wands. As much as he wanted to stop Voldemort once and for all, liberating the "mental victims" and restoring their magic and their lives seemed equally important

He needed to get reacquainted with his own magic, however, before he could even join Dumbledore's Army. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said to a water pail. It rose exactly to his eye level and stopped, waiting for Harry's next command. With a grin, he pointed to a patch of winter woodruff; the bucket followed his trajectory and upended itself over the sparkling white flowers.

Satisfied, he looked around for something else to spell, willing a happy memory to appear:

 _Almost-but-not-quite-too-hot water streams into his face while billowing steam fogs the shower enclosure. The door clicks open and he knows he's not alone, but he isn't frightened. Skin meets his, cool where his is warm, dry where his is wet. Sharp little teeth explore the curve of his neck, suckling flesh and dripping hair. "You were taking too long," a lazy voice drawls in his ear. "Malfoys don't like being kept waiting." Fingers drape over the bone in his hip; more slip perfectly into the grooves of his ribcage. Touch blends with cascading heat, wraps him in a blanket of water and steam and his lover's hands. Hot flesh incinerates his insides, sears his stretched skin, makes him beg for mercy, beg for release. Hands everywhere now, hands and water and his lover's voice telling him to let go. Forks of lightning course through his body as his lover climaxes. His own white heat joins it and ignites ribbons of flash fire that he doubts even the cooling water can contain. His knees crumble and he would fall if not for the strong arms that catch him. "Draco, I..." He wants to say something, can feel words forming on his scorched tongue, but like a pillar of ash he knows a single breath could scatter him into a million pieces. "I know," the voice says, arms tightening around him. "I know, I do too..."_

Harry looked up to see a tall stag standing before him. Its quicksilver features were perfectly formed, and when it shook its head, mighty antlers left a trail of glittering sparks against the overcast December sky. Harry grinned as it galloped over the hill where the Lovegoods' home stood. He followed, rounding the corner just in time to see it race past two figures standing outside the training room. A man and a woman, and he had his arm around her until, startled by his Patronus, they quickly pulled apart. Harry saw that one was Hermione, but the other, clearly, was not Ron. His friend's head darted around but he was hidden in the curve of the rook. Looking panicked, she turned and fled inside the shed.

The other person stayed where he was. Harry crept closer, surprised to see that it was Blaise Zabini who'd been cuddling up with Hermione. He watched as Zabini lit a cigarette—something he'd seen few wizards do, and even those usually used their wands instead of a Muggle lighter. Harry wondered where he had picked up this habit, and why. Hermione had told him that Blaise worked with Muggles in Cairo, exploring the connections between Muggles and magic in predynastic Egypt, but Harry found it hard to believe any pure-blood Slytherin could have untainted reasons for doing that.

"Zabini," he said in greeting.

"Potter," came the reply, along with a smirk. "I see you've located your wand."

"And it works as well as it ever did." Harry's warning was barely concealed. "So what were you doing with Hermione?"

Amusement curled Zabini's lips as he took a long drag from his smoke. "Ah, that Gryffindor subtlety. It's a beautiful thing ... so utterly predictable." He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette as if it was far more interesting than the conversation. Harry schooled his impatience; if there was one thing he'd learned from Draco, it was that Slytherins were more than eager to speak—so long as you didn't admit that you wanted them to. After a second or two of silence, Zabini flicked the ash away and drawled, "I think Miss Granger just needs a break from all that ... earnestness."

"It's Ms Granger- _Weasley_." Harry felt his fingers clench more tightly around his wand. Only a sideways glimpse from Zabini revealed that he'd noticed.

"Oh, is it?" Blaise affected the bored tones that only the very rich can carry off convincingly. "Maybe that's what she needs a break from then."

Harry pointed his wand directly between Zabini's dark eyes. "So help me, Zabini, if you lay a finger on Hermione I'll..."

"You'll what?" the Slytherin said, his tone only slightly less mocking as he faced Harry head on. He took a step forward, closer to Harry's wand. "Hex me just because Granger can't find anyone else smart enough to keep up with her?" Another step, closing the distance between them. "Or are you going to kill me, Harry? I bet you're just itching to test some Unforgivables before you go up against the Dark Lord." With the tip of Harry's wand just inches from Blaise's forehead now, he returned to the sly, bored voice he'd used earlier. "That'd be terribly reckless, since I'm the only one who's figured out what you're up against ... but that is your middle name, isn't it, Potter?"

Harry wasn't about to utter an Unforgivable like Zabini had suggested, but he was running through his catalogue of spells that could be used at such close range, teaching the man a lesson without indelibly harming him. Hermione and Ron found them that way, and neither was impressed.

"Harry, what do you think you're doing?" Ron forcibly pulled his arm down. "You can't go attacking our allies, mate. We've got precious few to begin with." He glanced at Blaise, then back at Harry. "Everything okay here?"

Harry didn't know what to say; he shot a quick glance at Hermione, who was inexplicably silent.

It was Blaise who spoke up first. "Harry was defending the honour of Gryffindor. Old house rivalries die hard, I'm afraid. Shall we call a truce?"

He extended his hand to Harry, who stared as if it was a venomous serpent. "Go on," Ron urged, nudging his arm. "Seriously, if Neville hears there's been fighting in the ranks, you'll be looking for You Know Who to bail you out."

It was only after Harry took Blaise's hand that Hermione finally stepped forward. Harry glanced at her, but she was looking at the Slytherin with a questioning look that bordered on fear. When Harry looked at Blaise, he saw the black man smiling back smugly at her.

Ron didn't seem to notice anything amiss.

"How's the training going?" Harry asked, pulling out of Zabini's grip and turning away.

"Really well," Ron said. "Did you get a chance to meet the Hockleys? Iman has one of the strongest Stunners I've ever seen. He's showing it to the others right now. And Neville's taught them every single spell in _The Dark Arts Outsmarted_. I don't want to jinx us, but I think we're about as ready as we can be. And Neville's right—something needs to happen soon."

Harry cocked his eyebrow at that. "What _is_ going to happen?"

Hermione was the one who answered. "We're still working on that. We'll have a strategy meeting after dinner. But now we've got the DA here and we really should be working with them. They'll be glad to see you've got your wand back, Harry."

He nodded; she was right. He'd corner her later and get some answers. For the moment he followed them into the training hall, watching out for the curses flying fast and furious, but keeping a careful eye on the tall Slytherin all the while.

It was the strangest strategy meeting Harry had every attended.

The Order of the Phoenix had always gathered in the Black kitchen. Maps of Britain or building interiors or spellbooks might occasionally find their way there, but the bulk of the meetings centred on the personalities around the worn table. Harry remembered heated debates, overly hopeful pep talks, and wine-soaked despondency. They were never like this. The meeting table was covered in parchments, but there was only one map—of Malfoy Manor. The rest were filled with scribbled numbers and calculations, making the Lovegood kitchen resemble the Arithmancy classes that Harry had fled in horror than any war room.

Blaise had been talking for some time now, switching back and forth between ancient scrolls on the verge of disintegration and modern Muggle textbooks. Harry had tried to follow what he was saying, but got lost in a complex explanation of the Egyptian counting system. Giving up, he glanced around around the table. Mr Lovegood was nodding thoughtfully, but his eyes seemed to be glazed. His daughter sat beside him with an idyllic expression; Harry suspected that Zabini's lecture wasn't getting through to her. It obviously wasn't reaching the Weasleys either. They sat together in a row, the subtle colour variations in their hair and hand-knit jumpers blurring together like sunset in the Painted Desert, to a man—including Molly and Ginny—wearing the same confused frown. Neville looked like he was trying the hardest to understand. He frowned a lot too, but he was at least examining the parchments with interest. Hermione ... well, Hermione was sitting up straight in her chair, glowing like she would at Hogwarts when something just clicked. That feeling came rarely enough for Harry, and hardly ever in a classroom, which is what this meeting was beginning to feel like. He almost missed Snape's contemptuous sneer and belittling comments.

Since Snape wasn't here now, and no one else was going to ask, Harry interrupted the meeting when Zabini paused. "And what does this have to do with anything?"

Hermione looked at him shocked. "Harry, have you not been listening? Blaise has figured out more about the horcruxes than even Dumbledore knew."

"Yeah, yeah, they're from some old Egyptian god. So what? It's not like that tells us how to attack him."

Zabini got that smug look that Harry wanted to wipe off. He couldn't remember Draco _ever_ being this annoying. "That 'old Egyptian god' figured out how to preserve his soul, Potter, back in 2000 BC." He grabbed one of the many notebooks littering the table and read, "'The Eye of Horus hath delivered for me my soul' and 'the Eye of Horus hath made me holy ... I will hide myself among you, O ye stars which are imperishable'—you don't think that sounds like a horcrux?"

"Maybe it does," Harry conceded. "Doesn't really say much about destroying them, though."

"Maybe it does," Blaise parroted smoothly. "And maybe it tells you what we'll have to destroy, too."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, what we'll have to destroy?"

"Blaise thinks You Know Who's created another horcrux."

Harry shrugged. "No big surprise there, is it? He's had years, he's probably got them scattered all over the place. Guess we'll be tramping all over the country to track them all down again." He looked pointedly at Ron and Hermione, longing for the days when it had been just the three of them.

"No need," Zabini said. "There's only one. But there'll be another on Saturday night." The Slytherin shoved some papers to the side to unearth a wall calendar. He flipped it back to August. "Like I was saying, the Egyptian mathematical system—the one used in the eye of Horus—is based on fractions of sixty-four. August fourteenth, that's was sixty-four months from the battle of Hogwarts."

"Yeah, okay, but what happened on August fourteenth?" Harry tried and failed to remember anything happening on that date. He'd started seeing Draco around that time, he knew. He wondered if that was significant.

"Absolutely nothing," Zabini said, "but sixty-four days later, on the seventeenth of October..."

 _…a Friday afternoon at Critswold's Creatures … Lucius Malfoy Stupefying a snake … a note from Draco about an emergency meeting … waves of pain roiling through him … red eyes burning through to his soul..._

"He made a horcrux that night." Harry swallowed hard, knowing with every bone in his body that it was a fact, not simply a guess. He looked up at Blaise with a mix of distrust and awe. "How did you know."

"It's a simple Arithmancy logarithm, Harry," answered Hermione. "The number of months and the same number of days. Sixty-four months and sixty-four days was how long it took to recover enough strength to split his soul again."

"And soul splitting takes a lot out of you," Blaise added wryly, "which means he wouldn't be able to try it again for another sixty-four days, until, oh, about now."

He tapped the calendar, right on the upcoming Saturday. Solstice.

The room was quiet, heavy with the dread of what was about to happen. For all that Neville might say he welcomed it, the reality of what was left to do weighed on all of their shoulders. It was George who finally spoke with characteristic directness. "So how do we kill the bastard?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to assume lecture duties. She flipped open a book full of symbols that Harry didn't recognise, but in the centre was the same image that Zabini had shown them earlier. It was the eye of a falcon, an eyebrow tented over the top and a tear seeping from the bottom.

"The eye of Horus isn't just a mathematical construct. Each piece also represents one of the senses: touch, taste, hearing, sight, smell, and thought." As she spoke her fingers flew to various parts of the image. "Whether magical or Muggle, this is all the sensory input that a person can handle. They're already fractioned into six pieces. We think we've found a spell—or rather, six different spells—that will fraction them further, and keep them splitting until they're no harm to anyone."

"Sorry, did you just say you want to make _more_ pieces of You Know Who's soul?" Ginny asked incredulously. Harry applauded her silently; it was the same question he wanted to ask.

"Technically, yes. Each piece will split into sixty-four pieces, then each of those pieces will split into sixty-four pieces, then those will split, and so on. In just a few seconds they'll be too small to do anything."

"Okay, assuming you're right about that," Neville said sceptically, "exactly what happens in those first few seconds? Won't we have ..." he tried to calculate the number, and then immediately gave up, "...a lot of new horcruxes just laying around?"

"We'd potentially have 384 in just the first division, yes." Blaise didn't sound at all bothered by that number.

"And we just, what? Hope they'll go away without too much fuss?"

"The individual pieces will be drawn into the spell," answered Hermione. "They'll go toward the one who casts it. It's not going to be easy ... not to mention that, once we start, the Death Eaters will go crazy. We'll have to keep them from tracking the magic back to us."

"Don't worry about that," assured Neville. "I reckon the DA can keep them busy for as long as we need." He looked around the table and shrugged. "Well, I'm volunteering, anyway."

Luna raised her hand. "And me."

Hermione and Ron's hands were already raised. As was Blaise's. Harry gave him a steely glare, but the Slytherin didn't flinch. Finally Harry raised his own.

"I guess that's our team then. Tell us what we're going to do?"

Hermione began to explain the background of the spell in some detail—too much detail, if the yawns coming from the Weasley contingent were any indication. Their discomfort was palpable as she and Blaise described the historical connections between the pharaohs and the wizards of Egypt's Middle Kingdom. Instead of another round of Pepperup, Harry suggested they take a break before continuing with just the core team. The others would need their strength for the early morning training session, he pointed out.

George was the first one on his feet. He gave Harry a look of immense gratitude as he fled toward the door, stopping for just a second to clasp his arm. "We owe you one." he whispered, careful that Hermione didn't hear.

"My pleasure, George," he said warmly, trying not to think of who George meant when he said "we." George still talked to Fred regularly, about the business, about their weekend plans, about the latest gossip from Diagon. It had upset the Weasleys at first, but over time they'd gotten used to it, even if they never asked whether Fred talked back.

While Ron and Neville took a moment to refresh the candles in their sconces and Luna made extra-strong tea to fortify them, Blaise stepped out for a smoke. Harry saw Hermione about to follow, but intercepted her. Careful that the others were out of earshot, he said, "I'm not sure about having Zabini in on this."

Hermione looked shocked. "Harry, I told you, he's got as much to lose as any of us if You Know Who returns. You heard what he said about his research. Muggles and magical beings share the same origin. He's destroying any idea of blood purity!"

"I know, but I still don't trust him."

"Harry, you've just got to get over these old house rivalries and..."

"It's not house rivalries. I don't trust him with _you_."

She stopped, her mouth falling open, wavering for a second before stuttering out, "I ... I don't know what you mean."

"I saw you today, I saw his arm around you. And the way you're fawning over him ... it's just like you were with Viktor Krum!"

Hermione's eyes glittered with anger. "There's nothing going on between Blaise and me. We've been working on the spells together, but that's all..."

Harry studied her face as she talked, examining every crease for any hint of a lie. He didn't find it, but it didn't assuage his fears. "I just don't want him involved. He may be looking out for himself, I don't doubt that, but I don't trust that he has our interests at heart. You heard what Neville said about putting his life in the hands of the DA. I can't do that with Zabini."

"And none of us can do this without him," she insisted. "Harry, Blaise knows this spell better than anybody, and unless you've picked up pre-Arabic Egyptian in the time you've been away, he's the only one who can decipher the original texts. We might have to make alterations as we're casting, and we need him."

Harry looked at the table where the others were regrouping. Blaise had returned and was staring at them, his chin held high. Hermione followed his eye over to the table. "We need to get back," she murmured. "Can we talk about this later? Just please, trust me for now."

"All right," Harry reluctantly nodded. "For now."

He followed her back to the table, taking his place between Ron and Luna. Hermione settled beside Ron and finished explaining the spell. Once she got past all the history, and Zabini stopped interjecting his own thoughts on long-gone political situations, Harry found the magic quite interesting. It involved each of them learning a different spell that affected a certain aspect of the eye; in effect they planned to overload that aspect by helping it do exactly what it was intended to do. Hermione compared it to Glow-Nosed Murgles, strange burrowing animals that, several times a year, would eat so much that their two stomachs would either divide into four or they would explode. Harry mumbled "wafer-thin mint" just as he'd done the first time Hagrid had introduced them to Murgles, and she flashed him a quick smile before returning to lecture mode. Harry didn't mind though. He was actually beginning to like this plan. Neville was right, they were creating thousands—no, millions—of inert horcruxes for Voldemort, turning his own lust for immortality back on himself. The whole thing had a symmetry that Harry admired.

At last Hermione handed out copies of the actual spell. "Blaise translated these from Middle Egyptian, which is a very difficult language," she said, and Harry noticed a slight flush rise above her collar as she distributed sheets of parchment written in her neat hand. "Alone they won't do much, but in conjunction their effects will build at an exponential rate." Ron frowned, spurring Hermione to explain, "That means they'll keep going, faster and faster."

"I know _that_ ," Ron said, his defensive tone really not like him. Harry sensed that this wasn't the first time that Hermione had made him feel thick. "I'm just wondering how we'll get close enough to You Know Who to make it work."

She nodded, looking a bit apologetic, for which Harry was grateful. "We have to be close and we have to begin the spell at the same instant. It's not going to be easy."

"And will someone have to die?"

Luna's question dampened Harry's optimism. Of course. Splitting the soul required an act of violence. To split someone else's soul, well, that was surely even more violent.

But Zabini shook his head. "No. Each of us is only creating a sensory overload that will split one of the individual components. It's not like fracturing an entire soul. No one has to die."

"Yes, they do." When everyone turned to face Harry, he explained, "He's already made one horcrux. And I have a good idea where it is." Harry told them about his last day at work, when Lucius Malfoy had purchased Kalfu. The others agreed that the young cobra was the most likely home of the first horcrux, especially after Harry described the snake's malevolent temperament.

"And we still don't know how to get to it," Ron said glumly.

Neville frowned too. "I talked to Roger Davies yesterday—he's the best ward cracker in the Ministry, and he says there's no hope of breaking through the Malfoy wards. They're stronger than Gringotts' these days."

"We'll have to lure them out, then," said Hermione. "Maybe attack the Eye and grab them when they come to stop us?"

Harry shook his head. "Some of the Death Eaters might be dispatched, but He wouldn't bother showing up. Not when he's got a ceremony planned that night and all." He scratched his head. "Wait, so how do you know it's at the Manor that night?"

Ron, looking sheepish, muttered, "Malfoy. He said there was a big Solstice ceremony planned there. I asked him to help us, and that's when he said we couldn't trust him."

"But you think his information is good?"

Ron hemmed and hawed before admitting, "Well, he hasn't lied to us about anything else."

"So you're telling me that you trust that this vital information came from him because he's fed us nothing but good information before, but you don't trust that he's on our side?"

Ron shifted uncomfortably and looked away. Neville and Hermione were both staring blankly ahead, studiously avoiding Harry's gaze. Luna wore a thoughtful expression, but it could as well have been about the temperature of her tea as the question of Draco's loyalty. But Zabini wore a smug look, and Harry knew he was thinking the same thing.

"I can get us into the Manor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note:** (1) Damnatio memoriae was an actual practice of the Roman Senate. The sentence for treason or otherwise bringing discredit to the polis was the complete erasure of existence. Their names were removed from written texts, their images obliterated from statues and coins, and even speaking their names was an act of treason. (2) The quotes regarding the eye of Horus come from the Akhmim wooden tablet, an ancient Egyptian artefact from 2000BC containing the arithmetic functions of the quotients as well as their corresponding metaphysical components. An image of the eye of Horus can be seen [here](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v614/Lilithilien/eye.gif); the various parts are described [here](http://www.aloha.net/~hawmtn/horus.htm). (3) The Care Bear Stare comes courtesy of my lovely beta, Sarcastic Jo.


	15. Mus Uni Non Fidit Antro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Mus uni non fidit antro**  
>  A mouse does not rely on just one hole_

In the dark room he shared with Ron and Hermione, Harry pulled the bedcovers completely over his head. He was exhausted, emotionally as well as physically, but his thoughts were spinning like a cyclone.

Their meeting had dragged on until well after midnight, and would have gone longer had Neville not reminded them that the DA would be returning in the morning. With news of the battle on their doorstep, they'd decided to forego inconsequential things like their jobs in favour of more training. Still no closer to deciding how to get near Voldemort than they'd been when they started, the six spell casters agreed to reconvene the next afternoon and stumbled off to bed.

 _"I can get us into the Manor."_

 _"Harry, you can't!"_

 _"We won't let you do that, mate."_

Harry hadn't thought his suggestion would be greeted with open arms. Malfoy Manor was the nerve centre of the Death Eaters, after all, and Harry had no fond memories of his one and only visit. He well knew the risks, to himself and to the others, if Voldemort should discover the DA.

But nothing they were doing was safe—it never had been. At least Hermione should have remembered that, even if Ron didn't. They'd put themselves in the face of danger more times than he could count. Skulking in the shadows ( _"like Slytherins"_ , he'd thought, although he didn't say it out loud) had never been their way.

This was just a plan, like any other. Malfoy Manor was impenetrable by ordinary means. Harry remembered its forbidding gates and the magic crackling through him as they'd crossed its wards in the Snatchers' custody. It was certainly stronger now; with Draco skilfully weaving its protective spells. A full assault by the DA was out of the question.

Still, Harry was certain he could convince Draco to lower the wards just long enough to let them sneak past. He wouldn't even have to go to the Manor. He could visit Draco at his Greenwich flat, or even at the Salus offices. He could owl him for a meeting at a public place, surrounded by the entire force of the DA, if that's what it took. It needn't be dangerous at all, he'd insisted.

But because it involved Malfoy ( _"Draco!"_ he reminded himself now; he'd heard the surname so often that night—and said so scornfully—that he'd fallen back into the habit of saying it too), the entire idea was being dismissed out of hand. _"Without anyone admitting that it's the best bloody chance we've got."_

 _"You were only together for two months. What about all the years that he was the enemy?_

 _"Maybe you shouldn't judge loyalty by how long you've been with someone. Sometimes best friends are the ones who betray."_

Harry thought Hermione had some nerve to bring that up. The others might have believed he was referring to Wormtail, but her pointed look told Harry that she'd caught the barb he intended.

Zabini, Slytherin that he was, had simply watched as Ron and Hermione—and sometimes Neville—argued against what Hermione had labelled "Harry's suicide mission." Harry was dying to know what he thought, but even when asked point-blank whether he trusted Malfoy, Zabini had merely shrugged. "I trust that Draco will do what's right for Draco."

Luna had kept her cards close to her chest as well, but of them all, she seemed the one who best understood that it might be a risk they had to take. "It might not be what we want," she'd finally said, just before they adjourned, "but it might be what we must do."

 _"We'll find another way."_

Ron had reason for his suspicions. As Harry breathed in the close air under the covers, he questioned why he himself should trust Draco. They had only been together a few months. It wasn't even Harry's longest relationship. The nightless summer he'd spent with Kristján Leifs in Reykjavík still technically held that honour. Kristján had been no Draco, though. Harry had appreciated the comfort of the man's bed, but there'd been nothing more than that, and when he left for warmer climes Kristján had sent him away with no regrets, no recriminations.

It was nothing like Draco, who'd made it clear from their very first night that he cared if Harry stuck around. No, they'd never exchanged sappy words of love, and in truth he wasn't sure exactly what feelings he held for Draco. The man was irritating, spoiled rotten, and too clever by half. His vanity had more than once tempted Harry to rip every coiffed blond hair from his head, and his utter disdain for those he regarded as beneath him, no matter how well-founded, often left Harry stuttering out embarrassed apologies.

Still, being around Draco was intoxicating. At first curiosity had drawn him, an experiment to see where the Malfoy he'd known at Hogwarts stopped and the Draco that he increasingly wanted began. But in a remarkably short time he'd found a man who was surprisingly gentle under his bravado, who was quick to anger but almost as quick to apologise when proven wrong, who held a keen sense of right and wrong—one untainted by the prejudice of blood purity. He was a genuinely attractive person, when his loyalties to Voldemort were stripped away.

 _But as for love..._ Harry shifted uncomfortably in his narrow bed, reshuffling the covers that slipped off his shoulder. It was still be too early to be thinking that kind of thing, wasn't it, even if he hadn't had two months of his life stolen away ... even if he hadn't had doubts about Draco's allegiance?

When he was being honest with himself, though, it was the very idea of love that frightened him. For all that Dumbledore had insisted that love was his saving grace, for all that Harry would have laid down his life for his friends, he'd never before told anyone that he loved them. He snorted softly, knowing what Hermione would say about that: emotionally stunted, and perhaps he was. Those three little words held nearly as much dread as an Unforgivable.

So why was it that, when he'd been with Draco, that there were moments that he'd imagined he might say them? Oh, not anytime soon, mind you, but someday, if they'd been able to keep moving forward the way they had been...

 _"I think you know I like you, Harry. Quite a lot, actually."_

But they hadn't kept moving forward, had they? Surely by now Draco remembered how things had been before. Chances are he'd returned to it gladly and was even now scouring his skin, erasing every memory of the weeks he'd spent with Harry.

Ron and Hermione were right. It wasn't safe to pin their future on how Draco had acted with him for two short months. It was who he was underneath that mattered. And that was why he was sure—fairly sure, in any case—that Draco could be trusted. There might be a way he could find out; he wasn't that thrilled about it, but to convince the others, he'd use every resource at hand.

Harry fisted his pillow, his cheek pressed into the cushion, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Like it or not, tomorrow he would have to talk to Zabini.

His chance came the next afternoon. The DA was engaged in what Luna called the "Mad Robin," named after the old English folk dance. Harry had joined half of the fighters to form a ring facing out; around them another ring formed, facing in. On Luna's signal, hexes flew between the two groups. When Luna called "right" or "left," the rings would move a step in that direction, bringing each fighter in line with a new combatant. It wasn't battle conditions exactly, and of course no Unforgivables were permitted, but quickly parrying such varied fighting styles was about the closest approximation Harry could imagine.

"Left," Luna called, and Harry took one step to his left, coming face to face with Blaise. Before he could fire off a spell, a purple trail of smoke was hurtling toward him. Zabini's Revulsion Jinx knocked him backwards, crashing into Rolly Seabrook, who'd just been hit by George Weasley's Vomiting Jinx. Busy untangling his limbs from the old farmer's while trying to avoid the slick sick on the floor, Harry didn't notice Zabini advancing on him.

"AMUN OCULUSO!"

Harry felt himself engulfed in a warm puff of air, like a dragon might have wheezed on him with breath as malodorous as the most rotten-toothed Norwegian Ridgeback's. He hardly had time to register the acrid ammonia spell, however, because his eyes were burning ... not the watery sting of sand, but intense incinerating heat, like acid devouring his corneas. He clawed at his face in agony, peeling his glasses off, wanting nothing more than to rip through his skin and stop the pain. Rolly must have been caught by the curse too, for Harry heard agonised screams accompanying his own. In vain he struggled for the anti-jinx, but he couldn't remember ever learning this spell. All he wanted to do was tear shreds from his skin, opening up his veins to the cooling air outside.

"STUPEFY!"

Frozen in place, Harry peered up through fingers gnarled in pain to see Mediwitch Melissa Whitehall's wand pointing at him. Behind her other members of the DA gathered, peering curiously over her shoulder. Rolly was quiet; Harry guessed he'd been stupefied as well.

"What did you do?" Ron demanded of Zabini.

"It's an Egyptian spell calling on the power of Amun to destroy a person's sight." He paused for a moment, just long enough for Ron to take a step towards him, before adding, "Don't worry, it's easy to fix."

Zabini pointed his wand at Harry and muttered a few incomprehensible words. Relief came immediately, flooding his eyes with what felt like cool spring water. Still Stupefied, he lay on the ground, tears pouring down his cheeks, while Blaise repeated the counterspell on Rolly.

"Rennervate," Ron said, kneeling down beside him. "Are you all right, mate?"

"I think so," Harry said, wiping his face on the arm of his cloak. "I can see ... my eyes don't burn anymore, but my head ... man, that was some spell!"

"Glad you liked it, Potter," Zabini commented. "Perhaps it's one you should learn before you head to the Malfoys."

Harry nodded—it would be a useful spell—but Ron was quick to object. " _If_ he goes to the Malfoys," he said reproachfully. "Surely that's Dark Arts, if it has that kind of effect."

"Maybe it is," Zabini replied with a nonplussed shrug. "Dark Arts means next to nothing in Egyptian magic. But I don't think it's wise to dismiss something just because it has an effect. Are we serious about winning or not?"

Harry felt Ron vibrating indignantly beside him, but fortunately Neville stepped in before the situation could escalate. "Let's talk about the spell later," he said to the clutch of wizards, then raised his voice for the whole group to hear. "Blaise has already shared some useful hexes that you're all doing a great job of incorporating. That was a fantastic Mad Robin, folks. Should we get back in line?" He reached a hand out to help Rolly to his feet. "Harry, why don't you and Rolly sit this one out, just to make sure there are no lingering effects."

To Harry's surprise, Zabini held out his own hand to help him up. He took it, mumbling an uncomfortable thanks. _"Don't be such a chicken,"_ he chided himself. _"This is the perfect opportunity to talk to him."_ "That's a really cool spell," he admitted.

"Yeah, it is." Blaise grinned with the smug surety that reminded Harry of another Slytherin.

He turned away to join the line, but Harry put a hand on his arm. "Hey, would you mind stepping out for a minute? I wanted to ask you some questions ... about last night."

"Sure, I could use a smoke."

They went outside the practice hall, standing where Harry had seen Blaise with his arm around Hermione. Harry tried to blot that image from his head by watching Zabini light another cigarette Muggle-style.

"No, thanks, I don't smoke," he said when the pack was offered.

Zabini just shrugged and repocketed the pack. True Slytherin that he was, he offered Harry no easy opening for what he wanted to know. Harry knew he'd need to take a deep breath and plunge right in.

"I reckon you know Draco better than any of us."

Zabini arched one perfectly curved eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sure you know him in ways I never will, Potter."

Harry swallowed, trying not to blush. He hoped the redness he felt in his cheeks could be explained away as after-effects of the spell. "I want to know if you trust him."

Blaise crooked his head back, exhaling a cloud of grey smoke as he considered Harry's question. The last traces of it had dissipated before he finally said, "Trust is such an unsophisticated word. It isn't something I ever really thought about."

"Not even when we were in school? How did you live with people you couldn't trust?" The very idea was repugnant to him. Those few months in fifth year when Seamus and the other Gryffindors hadn't believed him had been some of the worst of his life.

"The notion of trust never came up. You looked out for yourself and didn't put yourself in a position where anyone would turn on you. I suppose you'd call it self-preservation."

"But didn't you have friends? Would they help you out?" The whole Slytherin system seemed so foreign.

Zabini gazed at him bemusedly, making Harry feel like a foolish little boy. "Yes, we had friends, Potter, we weren't a bunch of barbarians. And of course we'd help each other. If it was worth our while, obviously."

"It's all about what you stood to gain, then."

"Of course."

"And Draco..."

"Is quite obviously making that same calculation now."

A calculation. That's what it was ... that's all it was. Draco was weighing the certainty of being a snivelling shill for Voldemort versus some unknown future with Harry. But no, there were so many other factors to consider: the reputation of the Malfoy name, the power and status he stood to gain, the confirmation of his own conviction that Muggle-borns tainted the magical world. Not to mention other, more insidious factors: the threats to the safety of his family, the fear that Voldemort fed upon, the physical pain that Draco would endure if he challenged his rule.

So many factors falling into line, each one weighting the scale against him. But he must fall somewhere into that calculation, mustn't he? Why else would Draco have helped get him out of St. Mungo's? Why else would he have given information to Ron—surely at great risk to himself?

"So what calculation do you think you'd make, if you were in his shoes?"

"Merlin, I wish I knew," Zabini chuckled. "What you have to know about Draco is that, as much a prat as he was in school, he was as smart as they come. He was always working some angle, plans within plans ... we used to joke that he could charm the balls off a goblin and sell them back the next day with interest. And to this day, I've never known anyone with a stronger sense of self-preservation."

"More than yourself even?" Harry remembered Hermione explaining Zabini's defection to their side. He wasn't quite sure that wanting to study Muggle magic was enough reason.

Blaise regarded him coolly. "Look, I know you don't trust me, Harry, and that's all right. Your trust doesn't concern me one way or another. What does concern me is being on the winning side. For what it's worth, I've thrown in with you lot. You know as well as I that Voldemort doesn't look kindly on traitors, so hopefully that's enough to convince you I'm on the level. If it's not ..." He shrugged and blew smoke from the corner of his mouth.

Harry considered it, and realised that it made sense. "No, it ... it helps, really."

Zabini looked at him closely, that bemused look returning to his face. "You are such a Gryffindor, Potter."

"What do you mean?" Harry bristled.

"This fight's not going to be easy, and I don't think we can afford to give up any advantages we have—whether it's spells or you trying to convince Draco to help us. I don't see any other way we're going to win."

"Yeah, I don't either." Harry didn't think Blaise had answered his question, but he wasn't quite sure. He'd forgotten what it was like talking to a true Slytherin, when questions weren't answered and answers didn't illuminate. At least it kept him on his toes. Two months with Greg Goyle hadn't held the same intrigue. Rather than badger Zabini for a less obtuse answer—that had never worked with Draco—he said, "Teach me that spell, will you?"

"Amun?" The black man grinned evilly. "Are you sure you want to dabble in the Dark Arts, Potter?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Besides, didn't you say that means nothing there?"

"Looking for some wiggle room? That's not very Gryffindor-like."

"Maybe there's more to Gryffindors than you expect."

Zabini smirked. He pushed himself off the picnic bench, pitching the stub of his fag to the ground. "Incendio," he muttered, obliterating the remains. "Right. Well, in the Middle East, magic is more deeply grounded than it is here. Here, you learn the words and wave your wand a bit and you're done. The spell either happens or it doesn't. But there, the spell's more connected to its source. For instance, what did you feel with that spell? Not that it hurt—what was the first thing you _remember_?"

Harry tried to ignore the memory of pain and focus on the sensory effects. "It was like a puff of hot air. Like bad breath."

Zabini smiled. "Exactly. Amun-Ra was the god of the air—literally the breath of life. The spell draws on his attributes. And bad breath—did you smell cat piss?"

Harry scrunched up his face. "Yeah, it was awful. And then it felt like it was burning my eyes from the inside."

"That would be ammonia. Ammonium chloride was discovered near Amun-Ra's temple. It's not only named after him, it's part of his essence."

Harry blinked. Those weren't words he'd ever expected to hear from a pure-blood wizard. "You know about chemistry?"

"Of course, Potter. I'm an archaeologist. You don't think magic alone can preserve four thousand year old artefacts, do you?" He held his wand out the tip pointing at the tree branch above their heads. "Anyway, so the words of the spell are 'Amun oculuso,' which directs it to attack the eyes—you can send it anywhere, but that seems to be the most effective."

"The spell's in Latin?"

"I'll teach you the Arabic version if you prefer, but I doubt you'd remember it with You Know Who breathing down your neck."

Harry shook his head.

"Right. Now to cast, I say the words while focusing on the essence of Amun-Ra."

When he flicked his wand toward the branch, it shuddered as if caught in a blustery wind. Harry smelled the onslaught of ammonia and shut his eyes reflexively. He opened them to see Zabini grinning.

"Now you try. Focus on the elements, the air and the ammonia."

Harry tried to do as Blaise instructed. He did his best to imagine wind scattering leaves across a road, to smell the acrid tang of ammonia on blistered skin. All it got him was a tiny puff of air that barely tickled the low-hanging leaves.

But Blaise was inordinately pleased. "Not too shabby, Potter. Most people can't do even that without a visual image. Later I'll show you some pictures of Amun-Ra to help focus your concentration."

"Later? Couldn't you do it now?"

"A bit eager, aren't we?" Blaise mocked.

"Whatever Volde ... You Know Who's got planned is happening in five days. So yeah, I'm a bit eager to learn whatever might give us an edge."

"Well, I'd love to help you out, but I've got some business in Diagon that I need to attend to."

"What kind of business?"

"None of yours, Potter." When Zabini sneered, Harry belatedly realised that he had sounded suspicious, and that he probably should be. Part of Zabini's strategy to be on the winning side could well mean revealing everything he knew about Dumbledore's Army to Voldemort. But no, that wasn't what Harry had been thinking when he asked. He had a completely different motive.

"Will you be near the Salus offices?"

"I could be. Why?"

And then Harry did something he'd never done before—he went behind his friends' backs to plot with a Slytherin. Blaise agreed not only to visit the Malfoy company offices but, if that proved unfruitful, to pop over to Greenwich as well. If he could see Draco under the pretence of reconnecting after his time abroad, a meeting might be arranged for Harry.

When Zabini Apparated away with the promise to return by dinnertime, Harry felt giddy with excitement. Ron and Hermione would not be happy when they found out, but he was sure this was the breakthrough they needed.

Dinnertime came and went with no sign of Zabini. Harry wasn't terribly worried. In fact, the longer it took, the more certain he was that Blaise had found Draco. They were probably even now dancing around each other in those odd circles that passed for friendship in the Slytherin world.

But since Harry had been the last to see Zabini, and had foolishly let slip when the man was expected back, it was assumed that he was somehow responsible.

"He said he had business in Diagon," he told them defensively. "He wouldn't say what."

But their accusing looks didn't fade. Harry wasn't sure whether Ron blamed him more for Blaise's absence or for not being as suspicious of it as he was. Along with Neville, Bill, George, and Charlie, his friend had retreated to the upstairs sitting room after dinner to go over the strategy for engaging the Death Eaters. Harry tried to join in, but he was unfamiliar with the strengths of the new DA and felt like he was doing more harm than good. He left to look for Hermione.

He found her in the kitchen, so worried that she'd done all the dinner dishes by hand. He asked if she needed help but just got a rigid little headshake in reply.

Luna, Xeno, and Gran Longbottom sat at the kitchen table, poring over spell books. At least they didn't glare when he sat down with them. He picked up the top book on one of the stacks. It fell open to a page in the middle, to the curse that Voldemort used to safeguard his soul, and Harry began to read.

 _**Damnation memoriae** _

_If hearts are broken, lost, or torn,  
Then seek a spell for love reborn.   
If revenge is what thou most desire,  
Then turn to hexes cast in fire.  
But if thy wish a memory cold,  
No breath to speak, no flesh to hold,  
If thou wouldst have thoughts disappear  
With no reminders they were here,   
Then forgotten names must be invoked.  
Those damned for evil acts provoked  
Erasure of their very ghosts._

 _But heed this warning, for if thou dost  
Invoke the Memoria Damnata curse,  
Then thou shalt owe a heavy purse  
For this deceit. So weigh it well  
For thou shall be the last to tell._

The spell went on for pages in this meandering way, with more cautions interwoven into the couplets before getting to the instructions for casting—although as far as Harry could tell, the worst part about erasing the memory of your enemy appeared to be that you could no longer complain about them. Restless, he flipped to the frontispiece:

 _Forgotten Spelles of Treachery and Revenge_ by Aneurin Thropp, 1838

The pages had that crisp fragility of age; the paper was thicker than used nowadays, and so old it should have chipped if not for its Preservation Charm. Absently Harry ran his thumb along the soft edge of the endpaper. He froze when his eye lingered on the corner, where the book's former owner had inscribed his initials:

_D.m._

It was a hand he knew as well as he knew his own, Hermione's, Ron's ... Draco left his initials on everything, from his owl posts to the notes he'd leave charmed onto the fogged bathroom mirror. The _D_ was unmistakable—it had that practiced perfection that had always made Harry curious about the penmanship lessons inflicted upon him as a child. If this was Draco's book, could that mean he'd known about the spell?

But as Harry studied the initials more closely, he saw that it wasn't Draco's usual signature. The _M_ of Malfoy was usually written in a perfect flourish of loops and curls, all capped off with a jaunty tail. This _m_ was smaller, more constrained, definitely lower case. It was still Draco's handwriting, but as he thought about it, Harry became less convinced that it was a message of ownership and more certain that it was a clue pointing them to the spell.

"Mr Lov– Xeno, where did you find this book?" Harry asked, holding up the spine for him to see.

"Yes, yes, that was very unusual indeed, that one," said Mr Lovegood, taking off his reading glasses. "I was in Flourish & Blotts some weeks ago looking for some novels for Editha … the _Sylva the Sorceress_ series, if I'm not mistaken." Gran nodded. "When I got home I found that little book tucked in as well. I was going to firecall Flourish  & Blotts concerning my bill, but then Hermione came across the details of the spell." He scratched his head. "It's truly a mystery how it came to be there."

"Interesting," Harry mumbled, inwardly adding, _"but maybe not such a mystery."_ After all, Lucius had secreted Tom Riddle's diary away in Ginny's bag without anyone suspecting a thing; Harry had even told Draco about that, so it wasn't too farfetched to think Draco had managed the same trick. And if Draco had gotten this book to Xeno, and even marked the spell of note, then surely he was trying to help. At the very least, he knew about the resistance movement and hadn't betrayed it.

"I do believe the Parcae must have had a hand in it. The Fates spin webs we wizards will never understand."

 _"That's more true than you know,"_ Harry mused, wondering if Xeno's Parcae would have been sorted into Slytherin. _"Plans within plans,"_ Zabini had said, and Harry wondered at all of the variables factored into Draco's calculations.

He sat reading for a few minutes until Hermione cleared her throat behind him. "Harry, could I have a word?" The dishes were all dry, but she was still wringing the tea towel around her fists; from the grim look on her face, Harry feared his neck would be next.

"Um, sure," he said, wishing he sounded a little braver.

He followed her outside into the wintry night. Hermione's warming charm diminished the chill, but Harry still hugged his borrowed woollen cloak tight around his shoulders. Hermione seemed agitated enough not to notice the cold. "Do you think he's betrayed us?"

"Who, Zabini?"

She gave him the look reserved only for the very stupid. "Yes, Harry. Zabini."

"I have no idea. I didn't think he would, but I can't say for sure."

Hermione crushed her face into her hands. "Merlin, he has and it's going to screw up everything. This is all my fault."

Harry was taken aback. "Why do you say that? You're not responsible for him. If he's acting an arse, well..." Harry was about to say he wouldn't be at all surprised, but figured that was unwise. "It's not your fault," he said firmly.

"But it's my fault he's gotten so deep in the DA. Ron and Neville didn't trust him—they didn't even want to let him join. I convinced them he was trustworthy. Now he knows _everything_!" She threw her head back and stared up helplessly at the stars. "I can't believe I've been so stupid."

"But we don't know what's happened. He ... he had a lot of errands to run." He debated whether or not to reveal all he knew of Zabini's errands. On one hand, it might help assuage her fears. On the other, it might make matters worse. He expected explosions when the others learned of the mission he'd entrusted to the Slytherin. He'd just hoped that Zabini would be with him when he faced them.

Entangled in his own thoughts, he was surprised to hear a choked sob. Hermione was still staring up at the light, but wet streams of tears were rushing her cheeks. Feeling as discomfited as he usually did around crying people, and doubly stupid for not recognising that this outburst was coming, he awkwardly put his arm around her shoulders. "It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong."

This brought even more tears, to Harry's dismay, especially since most of them were soaking into his shoulder now. "I be– believed him, Harry," she hiccoughed. "He said nice things and ... and I acted like a ... a stupid girl."

An uncomfortable knot squeezed Harry's insides. Bracing himself for an answer he didn't want to hear, he asked, "He didn't ... you didn't ... with him ..."

He knew he was being completely incoherent, but Hermione understood enough to shook her head violently. "Merlin, no! Never! I wouldn't!" She pulled herself away to collect herself before quietly admitting, "But I didn't discourage him either."

"What do you mean?

"I liked talking to him. He was smart, interesting ... he listened to what I thought. It was ... nice."

"Well, that's okay," Harry said, feeling utterly out of his depth. Doing the only thing he could think of to help, he transfigured a leaf into a handkerchief. She took it gratefully, but eyed him uncertainly.

"You ... you don't understand, do you? I mean, I wouldn't have acted on it. I'd never do that to Ron, you've got to believe that. But Blaise ..." She sighed, hugging her arms across her chest. "I ... didn't want to admit it, Harry, but you were right. I felt the same way as I did around Viktor." She grimaced. "And if he's spying then I've doomed us all ... all because of a stupid crush."

"You have a crush on Blaise?" he repeated, trying to make the words make sense. He looked up, expecting another of Hermione's patented "keep up" looks, but she just acted downcast.

"You have no idea what it's like, do you?" He shook his head slowly, not sure what she meant, but well aware that he had no idea. "I loved my job, I really did. I know Magical Catastrophes are sometimes passed off as a joke, but you grew up with Muggles, you know how magic can confuse them. I was helping them, and I was _good_ at it. And then, when we found out about the wards, when Neville got his memories back..." She snuffled and wiped her nose with the handkerchief. "When I knew what they were doing, I couldn't in good conscience work for the Ministry anymore. So I quit."

"I was really surprised to hear that," Harry admitted.

"Yeah, but you know, I expected Ron to quit too, but he didn't. And ... and that was okay, I guess, except that every day he goes off to work, and I stay at home..." Her shoulders sagged as she sighed again. "I never thought I'd be a housewife, but that's what I've become. No good to anybody."

"Hermione, you know that's not true. The DA would be lost without you."

"But you're just seeing how they are now, when everybody's fired up about the battle. For weeks we were meeting once a week, sometimes twice. The rest of the time, I'd be at home ... or in Maldon with Mum. Molly even tried to teach me to knit!"

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

"And Ron ... he was trying to be supportive, I know. But you know what he said, Harry? He asked if I wanted to use this time off to have a baby. And ... and I felt just awful, because I know he wants a big family, but I'm not ready. Even if the war wasn't coming, I ... I'd wanted to be department head first, and now I never will be. I'll turn into Molly, and I ... I..."

The tears were back, and this time it wasn't hard for Harry to move toward her, his thick cloak blotting up the worst of her sobs. "What if we made a mistake, Harry? We got married so young. I love Ron, but what if..."

Her words were smothered in damp wool, her narrow shoulders convulsing against his chest. Harry didn't know what he was supposed to do, so he did the only thing he could: he wrapped his arms around her and rocked her slowly, murmuring that it would be all right, that everything would be all right. It seemed to work; the sobs slowed until they were only heavy sighs, then weary gasps.

Finally she took a shuddering breath and pulled away, smiling sadly at him. "I'm sorry, Harry. I shouldn't be telling you all this, it puts you in a bad position."

He shook his head. "It's all right. You're my friend, you can talk to me. But ... don't you think you might ought to talk to Ron? Not about Zabini," he hastened to add, "but just about how you're feeling?"

She nodded miserably. "I should, I know. But what if he really wants kids now? I'm not ready."

"What Ron really wants is _you_ , Hermione. Maybe he doesn't show it all the time, not in ways you notice, but he does. And he wants you to be happy. If you tell him you want to wait on kids, I'm sure he'll be okay with it."

"Do you think so?"

"Yeah, I do. And after all this comes out about Vol–" He stopped short when her finger flew up to his mouth. "About You Know Who, and people's memories come back, then a lot of things are going to change. You can get your job back, I reckon."

She brightened at that. "Yeah, I bet I can. Unless..." Her shoulders slumped in defeat. "What if Blaise is on their side? We'll lose any chance we have to beat You Know Who. And with another horcrux he'll be even harder to beat."

Harry shook his head. He hadn't wanted to admit this, but Hermione had shared even bigger secrets with him. He owed her the truth. "I don't think he's a spy. I trusted him, too. I asked him to talk to Draco today."

Hermione gaped in horror. "He went to the Manor?"

"No, he wouldn't do that." Zabini had drawn the line at that—even the Slytherin was unwilling to enter that snakepit. "He said he'd go to his office and to his flat." Harry knew she was about to object, but before she uttered a word he said, "Hermione, I know you don't trust Draco, but please, trust me."

"I don't like it, Harry. It's too dangerous."

"Of course it's dangerous, but I'm sure this is our best chance. It may our only chance. Zabini thinks so, too. There's no other way we can get inside the Manor grounds—we have to get him to lower the wards."

"But what if Draco's on their side?"

"That's easy," Harry grinned. "Then we convince him that our side's going to win."

Hermione pressed her lips into a tight disapproving line; Harry wondered how upset she'd be if he pointed out that it was an expression lifted straight from Professor McGonagall's repertoire. He decided to opt for another tactic instead. "Look, no matter what you think of Draco, he's not Bellatrix. He's not serving You Know Who because he wants to. He'll stake his claim with whomever he thinks will come out on top. I just have to show him it's us."

"If you're sure..." She didn't sound entirely persuaded, but Harry suspected she might be coming around.

"I am," he affirmed. "As sure as I can be. Draco's not our enemy."

"I hope he deserves your trust, Harry."

"And I hope I can deserve his."

She nodded. "I'll just feel a lot better if Blaise comes back soon."

"Me, too," Harry admitted. A blast of cold wind swept through the garden, tattering the fading warming charm and leaving them both shivering. "It's freezing out here ... we should go in."

"Yeah ... I think I need to talk to Ron."

"I think that's a good idea." They started toward the house, but as she reached for the doorknob Harry touched her elbow. "Hey, wait a second." He cast a quick freshening charm, hiding the lingering traces of Hermione's tears and making it look like she'd just enjoyed a brisk walk outdoors. "There, all better."

She smiled gratefully. "I do love him, you know."

"I know you do. Everything's going to be okay."

And as he followed her into the warm house, and saw their friends look up to greet them, piping hot mugs of tea steaming their bright faces, he could almost believe it was true.


	16. Locus Desperatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Locus desperatus**  
>  A hopeless place_

A blare of trumpets yanked Harry from his sound sleep. Bolting out of bed, he snatched up his wand and, still in his pyjamas, dashed down the stairs after Neville and Ron to see what had triggered the nighttime wards.

They found a thoroughly unabashed Slytherin relieving himself (much to the Snargaluff's dismay) in the Lovegood's garden.

"Merlin's eyeteeth, Zabini! What the hell do you think you're doing?" yelled Ron.

"Housh ... jush so far away ..."

He took a stumbling step; Harry and Neville lunged forward and caught him just before he landed in the soggy ground. Harry's first thought was that he'd been injured, but when he got closer he found that wasn't the case at all.

"He's pissed."

Together he and Neville levered the tall man to the house. "He needs a Sobering potion," Neville suggested. Unfortunately the Lovegoods had nothing of the sort.

"I know just the trick," Xeno said, scurrying away. By the time he'd returned, Harry and Neville had propped Blaise in one of the kitchen chairs, close enough to the table that he probably wouldn't fall off. In front of him, Mr Lovegood placed a goblet containing what looked like Pepperup Potion with a raw egg floating on top. In fact, on closer inspection, Harry realised that was _exactly_ what it was. He stole a glance at Ron, who apparently shared his disgust. Hermione, on the other hand, looked strident. And she hadn't put her wand away.

"Drink, Blaise," she commanded.

"'mione?" he mumbled.

"Drink!"

To his credit, Zabini didn't flinch as he reached for the glass, probably too far gone to know how slimy the golden yolk looked atop the spinach-coloured potion. The Slytherin downed it in one go, smiled at them all proudly as steam whistled from his ears ... and then promptly spewed it back out. Fortunately Mr Lovegood had anticipated this, for he cast a Freezing Charm and discarded the mess before it even hit the table.

"That's it, son. Get it all out."

The others backed away to safety, although Hermione didn't go far. She kept her eye fixed as if Zabini might sprout wings at any moment and try to escape. Harry knew she wanted answers—they all did—but he almost felt an inkling of sympathy for the Slytherin.

After the worst was over and Xeno had cast more than a few Freshening Charms on Blaise, they all returned to the kitchen table. "Where have you been?" demanded Hermione.

"All over the plash," he slurred wearily, propping his drooping head on his hand. "But not wi' the Death Eatersh, if tha's wha' you're worried about."

Ron glared. "I think we've a right to be worried, Zabini. You were supposed to be back hours ago."

"Ran into an old friend," Blaise mumbled. A drowsy eyelid lifted as he turned to Harry. "Not Malfoy, though ... Pansh ..."

It took a second for Harry's mind to catch up. "Pans? Wait, you mean Pansy Parkinson?"

Zabini nodded, though he looked pained. "Spent the weekend with Draco. But she doesn't know where he is now. Offices shut tight, nobody home."

Ron didn't seem surprised to hear that the Slytherin had gone in search of Malfoy. In fact, Zabini's words seemed to click faster for him than they did for Harry. "Ferret's probably at the Manor then."

Harry glared at Ron, who at least had the decency to look contrite. "What'd Parkinson say, Zabini?"

"Huh?" Blaise blinked in confusion, tilting his head from Ron to Harry and back again.

Once more, Mr Lovegood came to the rescue. "Come now, the boy's still three sheets to the wind. He'll be no use to anyone until he's slept this off." Refusing to entertain their protests about how Zabini had brought this on himself, Xeno transfigured a row of kitchen chairs into a bed.

"You can't just leave him down here," frowned Neville. "We still don't know where he's been."

"I'll keep watch," volunteered Harry. "I'm not tired."

The others trailed off to bed while Harry transfigured a straight-backed chair into a comfortable settee. Xeno was the last to leave. "There's more Pepperup in the cupboard," he offered cheerfully, but the thought of the spicy drink coated in raw egg nearly turned Harry's stomach.

Maybe he should have reconsidered, however, because soon he was snoring along with Zabini. He was awoken hours later, as light was just beginning to creep through the window, by the horrific sound of metal clanging together. _"The wards!"_ he thought, leaping up with his wand, but it turned out to be Zabini's shambolic putterings in the kitchen. "Merlin, you startled me!"

"Sorry," groaned Blaise. "Need tea." He reached for a mug, but in the process managed to knock another off the shelf. Harry winced as it shattered on the tile.

"Here, you sit. I'll make it."

Zabini gratefully let Harry take over. He watched as Harry cast a spell to repair the broken mug, and then sighed blissfully as two cups floated toward him, leaving faint clouds of steam in their wake. "Did you ever consider a career as a house-elf, Potter?"

Harry might have taken offence, had it not been something that Draco might have said. "You're welcome, Zabini." He looked at the clock—it was still a few minutes before seven. "I'm surprised you're up."

"Couldn't sleep," he complained, stirring in a dollop of milk. "That potion felt like a Bludger was going at my head."

Harry snickered. "Yeah? I didn't think you got any of it down."

"Ugh. Don't remind me."

They sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Blaise said, "You don't have to stand guard over me, you know. I meant it—I didn't defect to the other side."

"Yeah, well," Harry shrugged, not quite sure what he believed just yet. "It's easier this way. Keeps the peace." He added another sugarcube to his tea. It was early enough that he thought he deserved it. "Besides, now you can tell me where you were yesterday."

"I told you, Potter, I had errands to run. Which you should thank me for. Accio potion!" A vial emerged from Blaise's cloak and floated across the room, stopping just beside Harry. "That's for you."

"What is it?" But he already had a suspicion—only one thing had that viscous mud-like consistency.

"Polyjuice," Blaise confirmed.

"But ... what am I supposed to do with it?"

"One does not simply walk into Malfoy Manor," pronounced Blaise grandly, although a quirky grin greatly diminished the effect. "Oh, c'mon, Potter, don't tell me you don't know _Lord of the Rings_. It's the only time Muggles have ever gotten magic half-right!"

Harry shook his head, chuckling. "I swear, Zabini, are you sure you're really pure-blood?"

"I'm happy to bore you with the pedigree of my family going back twenty generations if you'd like, but it's probably more productive if we talk about how you'll get into the Manor. You've still got Greg's cloak, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, you're more likely to be invited in if you look like a would-be Death Eater. Unless you'd prefer to announce yourself as the Boy Who's Trying to Kill You Know Who."

"No, that's quite all right. It's actually a pretty good idea." And after all, it wouldn't be the first time Harry had polyjuiced himself into Goyle. After living with the man for two months, he could probably even pull it off more convincingly than before. "But why didn't you tell us that you were going looking for this?"

"Well, I wasn't sure I could get it. It's almost impossible to find since the Ministry made it a restricted substance. Fortunately Mr Borgin still owes me for a few unregistered trinkets that found their way to him last summer. He could only get a single dose on such short notice, so you'll have to get in and out of there pretty fast. Although I reckon Draco could fix you up with some more, if you asked nicely."

"And you're pretty certain he's at the Manor now?"

"I don't know where else he'd be. I went by his office, but it's shut tight. 'Renovations,' the sign says, but it doesn't look like anything's going on inside, and it doesn't say when they're coming back. So then I went over to Greenwich like you asked. That's where I bumped into Pans."

"You said they spent the weekend together?" Harry didn't appreciate the little tug in his gut as he said that.

"Yeah, she and Milli were at his family's villa in Spain. Oh, what are you pulling that face for, Potter. Afraid the girls are out to steal your boyfriend?" Zabini apparently found this idea hysterical. When he stopped laughing, he said, "Believe me, if Draco swung that way, Pans would have nabbed him years ago."

"It's not that," Harry said, only it was, just a little bit. Well, that, and not even knowing about the family villa in Spain.

"Whatever," shrugged Zabini, obviously not believing him. "Here's the part you'll like though, Potter. Pans said that Draco's been in the dumps for months, since—as she put it—'that bastard Potter dumped him.'" Blaise cackled at this while Harry grimaced. "But this weekend, she said he was back to his old self. Pans is sure he's got a new beau."

"Oh." Harry didn't care, he really didn't. It was only that it might affect their plan to get into the Manor grounds. That was all. Really.

Blaise groaned with irritation. "Jupiter's balls, don't you get it? This happened this past weekend."

"Yeah?"

Shaking his head, Zabini explained, "Draco knew you were breaking out. That's what put him in a good mood."

"Oh," Harry repeated, this time with a very different meaning.

"I swear, Potter, you're an incurable idiot. And you're the saviour of the wizarding world? Circe help us all!"

"Shut it, Zabini." But it was hard to be genuinely annoyed when secretly he was overjoyed. Only because he was relieved that they could still carry off the plan. Really. "So what else did Parkinson say?"

"She wants me to come out with her next Saturday. She's been invited to the Greengrass' Yule party and it promises to be a dreadful bore. They're society climbers—lots of oh so pleasant conversation about who knows who. I told her that I already had plans."

"As if I care about Parkinson's social calendar."

"You should, Potter, because after I turned her down, she complained that she'd invited Draco first, and he couldn't come either. He told her there was a family gathering at the Manor that night. She was quite put out that she couldn't wheedle her way into that." He smirked. "If she only knew."

So it was certain, then. Draco would be at the Manor. And the "family gathering" ... the thought of it made Harry grimace. "I'd think she'd be quite comfortable with all the Death Eaters."

"Oh, that's rich, Potter. Do you know absolutely nothing about Pansy?"

"I went out with her and Draco once," grumbled Harry. It hadn't been the most enjoyable night. They'd gone to a Soho club and Harry had spent the night on tenterhooks, terrified that Pansy would hex the entire dance floor if a Muggle scuffed her impossibly high heels.

"I swear, Potter, you're..." Blaise shook his head angrily. "You claim to be so bloody open-minded, but you're more prejudiced than anyone. You treat every single person from my house like they're the Dark Lord's lapdog."

 _"Do I?"_ Harry asked himself? Admittedly, he had been inordinately suspicious of Zabini, but didn't he deserve it? Yeah, he might work with Muggles now, but surely his motives for doing that in the first place had been questionable. He'd probably been looking for some way to exploit th-- _"Oh Merlin, I do!"_ "You know," Harry said aloud, "someone once told me that there wasn't a single wizard who went bad who didn't come from Slytherin."

"Yeah, maybe so," grumbled Blaise, "but that still doesn't mean all Slytherins are Dark. That's some faulty logic there."

"I know. It's not true, either. Wormtail was a Gryffindor."

Zabini arched his brow, but didn't ask for clarification. And Harry wasn't eager to offer it. His mind was clouded, remembering Pettigrew's bulging eyes as his own demented hand strangled him. In the very manor where Harry was about to go. Blaise seemed content to let the matter drop, though, and they sat in silence, sipping their tea.

After a few moments, Zabini looked up. "Oh, yes, I remember something else. That pub you mentioned—the Greenwich Arms, was it?"

"Yeah?" The desolation he'd seen in his brief stop on Saturday night was another unsettling memory that Harry wished to forget.

"I suggested to Pans that we pop 'round for a drink, and she said it's been closed for months. The owner's wife disappeared and he's gone a bit mad."

"Oh, Merlin, not Sally!" The witch had always been so kind to him, and looked after Draco with such a sense of protectiveness. Like him, Sally had seemed to treasure a Malfoy free from malevolent ideas of superiority. "She'd kept her memories, you know. She remembered everything, but they never got her into St. Mungo's."

"Really?" Blaise looked thoughtful as he processed that piece of information. "How very interesting."

Harry could almost see the wheels churning inside the other man's head. "Interesting how?"

"Well, according to Pans—so keep in mind that this might not be completely accurate—the pub owner had a fit and attacked some Squibs in his pub. There were Muggles there and the Aurors had to do a mass Obliviation."

"Poor Ged! Why would he do that?"

"Pans claims he's convinced it was a Squib took his wife away. Which is ludicrous—a Squib could hardly overpower a witch. But a Squib paired up with a wizard, like Baines said they used to work ..."

"They might've been able to take her together," Harry concluded.

"I hadn't connected it to You Know Who before, but if her memories were intact, then maybe..."

"If they've taken her to the Manor, we have to find her."

Zabini set his empty cup in the saucer and studied Harry, frowning. "This isn't going to be easy. You know that, right, Potter?"

"I never expected it would be. But it's what I've got to do."

"Because it's the right thing?"

"Yeah."

"Bloody Gryffindor!" But it was said with amusement.

"Exactly." Harry grinned back. Perhaps he'd been wrong to distrust Zabini. Whatever the reasons for his choice, whether it was Slytherin self-interest or a Gryffindor belief in right, he stood as much to gain or lose as anyone else. And besides, hadn't Harry told Hermione that it was Slytherin self-interest that would help him win Draco to their cause? Maybe there was more he could learn from Zabini.

"So, I don't know about you, but I won't be able to get back to sleep. Want to teach me some more of your Dark Arts?"

"I could do that," said Zabini carefully, as if weighing a multitude of options. "On one condition."

Harry braced for the request. "What's that?"

"You be a good house-elf and fetch me another cup of tea."

"Give us a few more days, mate. We'll find another way."

"And if you don't?"

"We will."

"We have to come up with something better. You can't do this alone, Harry."

"But I won't be alone, will I? Not if Draco will help."

"Just give us more time."

"They had a white peacock. I think it must have eaten too many Splifflebugs—that happens sometimes. When it was dark in the cellar, I kept thinking about its long tail feathers. Will you ask Draco if it's there still?"

"Sure I will. You're not going to try to talk me out of going then?"

"Do you think I could?"

"No, not really."

"Then just check on the peacock."

"Remember, you've got one hour, Potter. Don't muck it up. Oh, and good luck."

_"How can Wiltshire be so much colder than Ottery St. Catchpole?"_ Harry wondered as he drew Goyle's cloak more tightly around him. There wasn't a great distance between the two places, but they might well have been on different continents. The late afternoon sky was dark grey here, closer to the colour of lead, not much brighter than the wrought iron gates sealing the entrance to the Malfoy Manor. As Harry moved toward those gates they pulsed with magic. It wasn't anything a Muggle would notice, but to a wizard the reinforced wards thrummed with life strong as a beating heart. Taking a deep breath, Harry touched one of the cold iron curls, forcing his hand to remain still even when the metal began to writhe into gruesome shapes.

"State your purpose!" the hideous face demanded.

Harry battled the butterflies in his stomach—no, not butterflies, these were wasps, huge buzzing things with rough wings, tearing each other apart as they warred for space inside him. "Gregory Goyle, here to see Draco Malfoy." He hoped that he didn't sound too nervous; then, remembering that Goyle would probably be quite uneasy facing these gates as well, Harry gave his knees permission to wobble.

The gate swung open soundlessly, inviting him to enter. As he started down the path of smooth white gravel, flanked by formal hedgerows, he wondered how Draco could ever feel at home here. Everything about the place was designed to intimidate. Even the snow that began to fall as he neared the imposing marble steps hung in the air, as if the feathery flakes were as reluctant as he to touch the Malfoy grounds.

To calm himself, Harry looked for Luna's peacock as he walked down the long lane. A rustle to his left caught his eye, but what he saw did anything but calm him. Through a break in the yew hedge were light-blue robes—the uniform of the Auror Guard! Trying not to be too conspicuous, Harry edged towards that side of the path, and when the foliage thinned again he peered through. Definitely the Auror Guard, at least three of them. He couldn't tell what they were doing without drawing attention to himself, but it was all the confirmation he needed to know that the Guard—and the Eye itself—was at Voldemort's service.

The heavy oak door at the front of the manor house cracked opened just as he reached the steps. Narcissa Malfoy emerged first, her face pale as Draco's, her hair just as fine. Behind, he saw the same pale features framed in darkness on the face of her sister. Harry was surprised that both were dressed in clothing popular in the last century: stiff poplin skirts down to the ground and, in defiance of the frigid weather, white lace blouses with short frilly sleeves.

"Gregory? Is it really you?"

Narcissa moved towards him, her expression flitting between surprise and worry. Her fingers fluttered over his face, light as the snowflakes kissing his cheeks. Harry was shocked to see her wear such a tender expression.

"M– Mrs. Malfoy?"

It wasn't her tenderness that made his voice break, though; nor was it the black outline of the coiled snake and skull on her forearm. No, his concern was for the grisly scratches covering both arms. It looked as if she'd been clawed by a ruthless animal. Some of the cuts were starting to crust over, others were still surrounded with red smears of blood, and Harry wondered why she hadn't healed them. Narcissa noticed where his attention was fixed and, with a hint of embarrassment, crossed her arms to hide the most serious damage. But Bellatrix, who leered from behind her sister, was running her long cracked nails across her own skin; she bore the same wounds, but she was keeping hers open and seeping. As Harry watched, Bellatrix dragged her nail through an open gash and lifted the crusted blood to her tongue. Harry shuddered at the sight, which Narcissa interpreted as cold.

"Do come in, my dear boy. It's much warmer inside. Draco will be so surprised to see you."

Much warmer was not an understatement. The Manor was blisteringly hot, _"like the fires of Hades,"_ Harry thought. He wouldn't have been surprised to smell sulphur burning. Gratefully he surrendered his heavy cloak to an obsequious house-elf before following Narcissa down the hall. With Bellatrix just behind, Harry found it hard to recall ever being quite as terrified as he was during those few hesitant steps.

But Narcissa, acting the gracious host, had kept him moving forward into the drawing room. "Please forgive me, Gregory, but it is such a surprise to see you here," she confessed, nervousness threatening to undermine her aristocratic tone. "I was thinking of your dear mother just a few days ago. How is she?"

"She's very well, thank you," Harry offered. "She sends her regards." He hoped that would be sufficient. Zabini had coached him concerning the basics of Goyle's family, but Harry was ill-prepared to provide any details about their health or recent affairs. Especially not when he was doing his best to rein in his fear. He did not have fond memories of this room; its reconstructed chandelier and the stern Malfoy portraits on the wall were doing little for his confidence. Combined with the stifling heat under his warm winter robes, he was sweating buckets. "Is Draco here, ma'am?"

"He is working on a potion at the moment, but I sent Lubby to announce you."

"The boy should not be disturbed," Bellatrix complained, but Narcissa snapped at her.

"Nonsense! This is Gulzar's son. He's been away for many years!"

Harry's back stiffened when Narcissa put her arm around him protectively. He wasn't terribly accustomed to having anyone fawn over him, but to have this kind of attention from a Death Eater was deeply unsettling. Goyle, though, would have been eating this up—especially after five years locked up—and reminding himself of that, Harry smiled ingratiatingly at Narcissa.

"And now he's come back," she continued, smoothing a dark curl back from his sweaty forehead. "I remember when you were just a boy, Gregory. You were such a sweet child. One winter you and Draco and Vincent built the huge snow castle, do you remember that? Draco loved the snow so much, I had such a time getting the three of you to come in, even after it grew dark..."

Harry was starting to think it was more than nervousness making her babble. Her voice seemed to drift, as if she was losing herself in her old memories. It didn't impress Bellatrix. When she huffed loudly, Harry stole a glance at her; his eyes widened when he saw that her arms were streaming red. The witch had taken the stem of a black rose and, to Harry's horror, was now using the thorns to rip open her half-healed skin.

"And Vincent, poor, sweet Vincent." Narcissa's voice, rising alarmingly, regained his attention. "Not even a body for his poor parents to bury. And it could have been any one of you, even my sweet Dragon..."

As she began to weep dramatically on Harry's shoulder, he realised that the injuries to Narcissa's arms might only be the visible manifestation of her fragile state. Inside she seemed to be falling apart just like her sister.

 _"Why the hell was Draco taking so long?"_

"Cissy, let the boy go. He doesn't need you slobbering over him like a hellhound."

Chastened, Narcissa took a step back. "Of course, I apologise." She didn't release her hold on his arm, though, and steered him in the direction of a tall spinet. "Do you still play, Gregory? I'd love to hear something."

"No, ma'am." _"I'm going to kill Zabini,"_ Harry steamed. The Slytherin had neglected to mention any penchant for music. "I ... I haven't played in years."

"Oh, but why don't you try? I'm sure it will come back to you." She nodded encouragingly. "I remember how you always used to run to the piano. It was the first thing you did when you arrived. You simply could not wait to play a song for your Aunt Cissy."

Harry's fingers twitched helplessly over the keys, haplessly tinkling one of the high notes. "I don't think so, it's been so long." He couldn't remember ever even being this close to a piano. The Dursleys didn't own one, and even if they had, they certainly wouldn't have wasted time or money on lessons for Harry.

He looked up and was surprised to see Bellatrix glaring—not at him, but at his hand. _"Of course! Goyle wouldn't have played the Muggle way. Not with those cocktail sausage fingers of his!"_ Harry withdrew his hand and pulled out his wand, but it was just for show. He said to Narcissa apologetically, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy. I really have forgotten how to play."

She looked like a crushed child who's been told her dolly can't be found, but Harry had no chance to appease her because, just then, the door to the drawing room opened and Draco entered. Instinctively, Harry took a step towards him. Seeing Draco again felt as uplifting as it did in his dreams, but the man looked as frightful as in his nightmares. His eyes were sunken deep, making his features pointier than ever. The skull-like effect was reinforced by his hair, usually perfect, that now hung lank and lifeless. Worse, there was a patch where his scalp was bare, as if someone had yanked a fistful straight from the roots. Stiffly Malfoy moved forward, and it took every ounce of strength Harry had not to race over to discover what other horrors had been inflicted. But despite all that, Draco was staring as if his appearance was a wondrous thing. It was terribly hard to remember that those grey eyes were seeing a long lost friend, not Harry.

"Greg," he said in an unnaturally calm voice, although he looked like he wanted to hug him. Harry was actually worried about what he might do if Draco tried; he wasn't sure if he'd be able to let go. But Draco steeled his emotion and extended his hand instead. "It is good to see you."

Harry was still holding his wand; he slipped it into his pocket before clasping Draco's hand. A flicker of discomfort passed over Draco's features, but again, he clamped down before his face revealed anything. After being party to Narcissa's unrestrained emotion, Harry wondered at Draco's overly reserved behaviour. There was definitely something off here, he could feel an undercurrent of something approaching hysteria, and Draco seemed only mildly better at controlling it than his mother.

"Gregory has forgotten how to play the piano," bemoaned Narcissa. "Isn't that terrible?"

"Tragic," Draco said blandly, not taking his eyes off Harry.

A cold voice unsullied by emotion called out from the far side of the room. "And did you finish your work, Draco?"

At that, Draco broke his gaze to cast a sharp look at his aunt. "Don't worry, Aunt Bella, it's under control." He turned back to Narcissa. "What would you like to hear, Mother? Some Chopin, perhaps?"

"That would be lovely dear."

"Cantus _Nocturne 66_."

The keys began tinkling of their own accord, and Narcissa beamed beautifically. "Thank you, darling. Now you two run along. If you're going to play outside, be sure to take your hats. You could build a snow castle..."

"No, Mother," Draco said gently, kissing her cheek to excuse the interruption. "We'll just be up in my room. Come on, Greg."

Harry's heart raced as he followed Draco up the broad carpeted staircase. At any other time, he would have been amazed by the extravagant décor, but now, he was too preoccupied with his impending revelation. He'd imagined it so many times, even practiced it in his head, in so many different ways. Should he go for the straight confession—"the Gryffindor way" as Zabini had dubbed it? Or should he try to feel Draco out first, see where his loyalties lay? In truth, after seeing Draco downstairs he wanted nothing more than to take him into his arms and examine his wounds, perhaps spend his short time on healing charms and escape plans. He suddenly regretted the polyjuice. The thought of kissing Draco with Goyle's lips made him queasy.

At the top of the stairs a door magically opened for them; Harry followed Draco in, relieved to feel a Cooling Charm at work. His relief didn't last long. As soon as the door slammed, Draco whirled on him with an anger that Harry had never seen before.

"Great Hephaestus! Is this what passes for Gryffindor stealth? I give the Weasel _one_ simple instruction, just _one bloody thing_ for that ginger-infested brain of his to process, and apparently even that's too much! _Keep you away!_ That's all he had to do! But no, you had to go and make a bollocks of it."

Draco's fury was genuine—in all the many arguments they'd had, even in all the many years they'd hated each other at Hogwarts, Harry had never seen such rage. Not sure how to react, he said the first thing that came to his mind. "You know who I am?"

"Quick on the uptake as usual, Potter. Glad to see your mind's sharp as ever." A flash of something like regret coloured his face for a moment, then he snapped out, "Of course I recognise you—you have my wand. Speaking of which..." In the blink of an eye Draco had drawn his chestnut wand.

 _"EXPELLIARMUS!"_

The hawthorn rod flew from Harry's pocket. He made to grab it, but Goyle's body reacted more slowly than his own, resulting in a clumsy lunge that almost made him fall. Harry glared at Draco. "What are you doing?"

"Taking back what's mine," Draco said cruelly. As he ran his fingers lovingly over the length of wood, Harry recognised the same smile of possession he'd worn just a few days earlier. Harry felt the loss keenly, underscoring his vulnerability, especially in light of Draco's odd behaviour. But he wasn't here to fight over a wand. There were more important matters at stake.

"Draco, you've got to help us. We know something's planned for tomorrow night. You've got to lower the wards so we can stop it."

Malfoy released an indignant huff. "Of course you know something's happening, Potter. I'm the one who told the fucking Weasel about it. And what else did I tell him? Let's see—oh, yeah, that _you weren't supposed to be here!_ "

Harry's presence seemed to be Draco's major concern, so Harry hastened to reassure him. "It's okay, Draco, no one suspects anything—they're convinced I'm Goyle. But I don't have much time—the polyjuice will wear off..."

"You reckless fool!" Draco's face flushed redder than ever. As thin as he'd become, the effect was truly alarming, as if the paper-thin skin covering his skull was about to burn away. "Do you think you can just walk out of here? None of us can!"

Harry shook his head. He had to convince Draco that their side could win. Without some hope of victory, the Slytherin would never turn away from the Dark Lord. "You _can_ , Draco. You have a choice."

"Choice?" Draco's lips twisted in an ugly sneer. "You know nothing of choice, Potter." Draco wrenched up the sleeve of his robe. Underneath his skin was slashed, just like Narcissa and Bellatrix'. On Draco, the sight of the crusted blood was made even worse by deep bruises encircling his wrists, as if greenish-black fingers were still restraining him. "He did that to make sure that Father would return from Diagon yesterday. A strip of skin for every minute he was away. Do you think I chose that? Do you think Mother did?" Draco's voice had reached the same level of hysteria as Narcissa's; Harry flinched as the mutilated arm was waved in his direction. "Do you?"

Harry swallowed hard, unable to answer. His encounters with Voldemort had always been brief, in the heated moments of battle. Such persistent brutality, such manipulation of fears and familial loyalty, was something he had no idea how to combat. But it truly pained him to see the man he cared for filled with this much anger and fear. Forgetting his mission, forgetting Dumbledore's Army, forgetting even the Dark Wizard who he'd sworn to defeat, he spoke to his lover as if there were only the two of them in the world. "I know this is not what you want, Draco."

Fast as lightning, Draco moved in closer, stopping with his face just inches from Harry's. For a moment Harry thought Draco might kiss him. They were that close, sharing each other's breath, grey eyes locked to Goyle's blue ones in angry passion. Harry gasped for air, and it was then that he felt the sharp tip of the hawthorn wand pressing into his throat.

"You haven't the slightest idea what I want, Harry," Draco whispered hoarsely. "If you did, you would be far, far away from here."

Harry stared into Draco's face, searching for the man he'd known. He saw instead a cold mask with a grimly set mouth and calculating eyes that betrayed no hint of human feeling. Had he tried to read Draco's thoughts, he was sure they would be occluded too. He waited, forcing himself to breathe, letting Draco make the next move.

"Lubby!"

The house-elf appeared immediately. "Yes, Master Draco?"

"Tell my father that I have Harry Potter in my room."

"Draco, no!" Of all the things Malfoy could have done, this was the last Harry expected.

"Now, Lubby!"

"Yes, Master."

"Draco, no, you can't do this!

"Shut it, Potter." Malfoy pulled away from him, shaking his head wearily. "I'm not the one who came bounding up to the front door with all the subtlety of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. What in Nimue's name were you thinking?"

"I was thinking you'd be the same Draco..." It was just fear that choked his throat, he told himself, no other emotion.

His eyes suddenly crackling with life, Draco opened his mouth to answer. Before anything came out, however, there was a loud pop and Lucius appeared between the two young men. He frowned at his son. "What is this, Draco? If this is another of your diversions..."

"Father, it's Potter. He's polyjuiced as Greg."

Lucius stepped closer to examine Harry's face, as if proximity might help him see through the disguise. "Harry Potter?"

"I don't know what he's talking about," Harry said, trying to imitate the annoyed tone that Goyle used when he was being woken up. "I only came by because I haven't seen Draco for years."

Lucius' lips curled into an oily smile. "Yes, yes, you definitely have that half-blood earnestness. Well, I suppose there's only one way we can be sure." He waved his wand at the door, which opened for two Auror Guards. They flanked Harry, gripping his arms tightly. "Please accept our hospitality for a short while, _Mr. Goyle_ ," said Lucius. "If you are who you say you are, then I will release you with an apology. And if you are Potter," he promised, "then you will be an honoured guest of the Dark Lord. Take him to the cellar!"

The Guards pulled him toward the door; Harry tried to fight against them, but together they were too strong for him. He struggled for one last glimpse of Draco as he left, but the man's face had turned his face away. In his profile Harry could only see defeat.


	17. Inter Spem Et Metum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Inter spem et metum**  
>  Between hope and fear_

The cellar was pitch black, but Harry didn't need light to recognise this foul place. It stank of stale earth and stagnant air, of vermin both living and long-dead. It was a potent smell that transported him back to the last time he'd been trapped here. _"Last time, when Draco wouldn't tell them who I was,"_ Harry thought sullenly, kicking at the stone wall. At least it was cooler than the blistering heat upstairs.

He tried to call for Kreacher as soon as the Auror Guards had gone, but there was no answer. _"Well, it was worth a shot,"_ Harry consoled himself. After their lucky escape last time, Lucius—or Draco, maybe—would surely have spelled Anti-Apparition wards that even house-elves could not penetrate. He was more annoyed that the Guards had searched him, confiscating Hermione's charmed coin and Luna's Luminus ring. Only magical objects were discovered, of course, and Harry cursed himself for not packing a Muggle torch. He _thought_ he was alone, but a bit of light would have silenced the nagging doubt that would not let him rest until he'd stumbled blindly around the entire room.

True to his word, Lucius came down after a few hours. At his first step across the threshold, a blinding light filled the room. Harry scrambled up from his cold stone seat, struggling to discern the tall wizard's pale features in the brightness.

"Well, well, Mr. Potter, so Draco was correct—it is you." Harry tried not to shrink back against the wall as he drew closer, but Lucius noticed him flinch. "Oh, you needn't be afraid, Mr. Potter, you are our guest. In fact, you might even say that you are the guest of honour."

"Funny way to treat a guest of honour," Harry grumbled, straightening up. He couldn't let Lucius see any fear. "A cellar? Really, Malfoy, you'd think in a nice place like this, you'd get yourself a decent dungeon. I'm sure you'd have plenty of call to use it."

Lucius chuckled. "Ah, your wit is still razor sharp, Mr. Potter," he oozed sarcastically. "Very refreshing. And just as audacious as ever. I admit I was surprised you were masquerading as one of your enemies, but I suppose you could not resist joining our little soiree." His voice turned suggestive as he asked, "Or perhaps it is my son you could not resist?"

Harry held the man's gaze but said nothing. He didn't know what Lucius knew about him and Draco, and he certainly didn't want to give the man any ammunition to use against either of them. But Lucius did not wait for Harry's answer. "How does it feel to know my son was using you, Potter? That when he called out your name out in the throes of passion, he was really courting our Dark Lord?"

"You don't know anything about it," Harry said darkly, hating that Lucius' questions were feeding the doubts born from Draco's betrayal, twisting Harry's insides painfully.

Like a jackal sensing a weakness in his prey, Lucius dug in. "No, I don't suppose that would fit with your notions of romantic love, would it? Imagine how I felt, then, learning that a blood traitor was buggering my only son. Not the proudest moment for a father, I admit. But I underestimated Draco. I should have known that he had plans all along."

"No, it's not true," protested Harry, fighting against the word that seeped like poison into his mind. _Plans_ , Draco always had them, _"plans within plans,"_ like Zabini had said. Even without his memories, Draco would have been working every angle to get what was best for himself. It was all a game, just like the one that Lucius played now, taking delight in poking at the sore spots where he could hurt Harry the most.

Malfoy's cruel smile grew bolder when he saw that he'd struck pay dirt. "Oh, yes, Potter, when Draco told me he would bring you from St. Mungo's himself for the sacrifice, I knew it was just the thing to enshrine the Malfoys' rightful position at the right hand of our Lord's."

St. Mungo's? Why would Draco need to bring him from the hospital? Did Lucius think he was still there, even after Draco had helped him escape? Questions flew through his head, loose strings of thoughts that he suspected might somehow tie together. But since he wasn't sure what to make of them just yet, Harry held his tongue. Lucius took his silence as a concession.

"Of course, you saved him the trouble by coming yourself. I had no idea Draco had gained such a hold over the Boy Hero. Although I am curious as to why you came here. Did you think my son would be so foolish as to ally with you?"

Harry's first impulse was to insist that he would do exactly that—that Draco had no desire to sit at Voldemort's right hand. He wanted to tell Lucius that he was on the losing side. He wanted to proclaim that they would defeat the Dark Wizard, once and for all. But even as the words began to swell, he swallowed them down. He couldn't give that away, couldn't let Lucius think there had been any plot. And with the doubts now growing in his mind, Harry was no longer sure why he'd come. And so he said the thing he knew would wound Lucius. "Maybe I just wanted to bugger him one last time."

The curse came swift and sure, violent flashes of jagged pain that split Harry's muscles and crushed his bones. The cold stone walls echoed with his screams, filling his head until he was sure it would explode. When he could take no more, when he knew that another second of Crucio would break him utterly and he would welcome the relief that came with death, the curse was suddenly lifted. Absence of pain was hardly a relief, though; his entire body reeled with the shock, his bladder voided, and Harry was left shuddering in strangled gasps on the floor.

Lucius gazed down at him contemptuously as he sheathed his wand. In a voice only minutely less harsh than the Cruciatus Curse, he spat, "Be thankful that my Lord wants you whole or I would have you pay dearly for what you have done."

With a surprisingly sharp click of his boots even on the earthen floor, Lucius spun around and left his guest, leaving darkness and the nervous scratching of the rats as Harry's only company.

It could have been minutes that he'd been unconscious, or perhaps days. Apart from the stiffness in his bones, there was no way to tell how much time had passed. Everyone assumed the acute agony of being cruciated was the worst that could happen, but Harry knew the aftershocks were just as traumatic. Even after the pain in his body dulled, his thoughts were shaky and unsure, his nerves on edge. And his dreams ... his dreams were unspeakable.

 _"Come closer so I can see the Boy Who Lived one last time."_

Fingers clutched at his sore body, trying to move him. In his dream they became the hurtful hands of the Death Eaters, wanting nothing more than to tear him apart as they dragged him nearer to the shining red eyes. Harry whimpered and shrank away, curling himself into a tight ball. To his surprise, the hands disappeared. He slumped back down, his nose pressed gratefully into the dirt.

Another sound broke through his sluggish consciousness, a gentle rustling that was oddly familiar. Harry pried open a single, sore eye—how could an eyelid ache?—to see a dozen faint blue lights brightening the dark room. One darted toward him and hovered just a few inches from his eye, reminding Harry of the fireflies he'd chased when he was young.

"Winged sapphires," said a whisper beside him. "They were a present from Grandmamma when I was little. Father told me I wasn't to be afraid of the dark, but I hated it—I'd stay up all night long to make sure nothing bad happened. Grandmamma gave me these to keep away the dark so I could sleep."

Harry thought he recognised the calming voice, and he longed to see if he was correct, but the effort to open his eyes had taken too much out of him. He closed them again, but this time the quiet trill of wings kept his dark thoughts away.

"Sit up, Harry. You need to drink this."

He felt hands again, but this time he didn't fight as they turned him on his back and lifted his head. A potions cup touched his lips; too weak to argue he opened his mouth. The potion tasted of Hogwarts, of the sweet holly and blackcurrent draughts that Madam Pomfrey prescribed for most any ailment, but it was mixed with other flavours he couldn't identify. It could well be poison, he realised too late, but the strong hand cradling his head did not feel like that of an enemy.

"It's a restorative with a sleeping draught," purred the voice, smooth as the warm liquid. "You'll need your strength tomorrow, Harry."

"Draco?" The man's was obscured, but his silver hair shone like glacier-blue ice as the fireflies danced around it. Harry wondered whether it might be a dream; nothing in this awful place could possibly be so beautiful. The fingers brushing softly across his cheek made him wonder even more. They should have hurt, his skin was overly sensitive for days after begin cruciated, but this felt bearable ... more than bearable, and he leaned into the reassuring touch.

"Did you know I've never killed anyone, Harry? I know what you thought, but I didn't."

Harry wanted to interject that he hadn't thought that, but his tongue were too lazy and the voice was too soothing. It was much easier to just let the voice keep talking. It was just a dream, after all.

"Never believed I could, to tell you the truth. I was a lousy Death Eater. But turns out I'm a murderer after all. Or I will be after tomorrow night. Even if I don't cast the Killing Curse, it's my charm that'll send it through the Eye to St. Mungo's."

Harry didn't know what to say. More about St. Mungo's—why did everyone keep talking about that place? Draco sounded so sad and Harry wanted to reach for him, but his limbs felt like lead. He did manage something that sounded like a whimper; Draco must've heard it, for his thumb dragged across Harry's bottom lip.

"I know what you're thinking, Harry. That I should refuse—that all those people don't deserve it. I know you wouldn't do it. You'd die first. Tell you the truth, I would too. But there are worse things than dying." The whisper dropped lower, and Harry strained to hear it above the sapphires' fluttering wings. "I'll tell you a secret ... I hoped you would win. The last time, I mean. Even all those years ago I didn't want him to have you."

"Why...?" Harry tongue felt so thick, coated with the draught that was already lulling him to sleep.

"Why did I betray you now? It was the only way, Harry. I'm sorry."

That hadn't been what Harry was going to ask, but in hindsight it was probably more important than knowing why Draco had wanted to protect him five years earlier. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts blur.

"You really messed things up, you know." The indulgent voice sounded terribly far away now, but it didn't sound angry, not even when it added, "stupid Gryffindor."

Harry tried to smile back, but he knew he was too far away for Draco to see. He was floating high above the green Wiltshire plains, following the trail of sapphire fireflies into the clouds.

When he next awoke, he was alone.

Harry sat up stiffly, wincing at the lingering effects of the curse, his bones feeling awkward and ill-fitting, his skin stretched too thin, his trousers stiff from dried urine. But one thing was certain: he should have felt much, much worse. That must be the effect of Draco's potion.

He would hardly have believed the visit was anything but a dream had it not been for the pale lights humming around him now. With the smooth hand of a seeker, Harry snatched one of the sapphires from the air. The others circled closer, as if concerned for the fate of their companion. He carefully opened his palm and peered at the captured stone. It looked like the gem of its name, not with sharp facets to sit in a ring, but smooth and about the size of a small button. Without light shining through it looked dull, easily mistaken for any small pebble, save for the translucent wings folded on its back. Harry felt a pang of regret at the thought that he might not have the magic to send it back into flight. But hadn't Draco said he'd gotten them as a boy? Perhaps it had been before he'd learned magic. _"Was there ever such a time?"_ Harry mused as he threw the stone into the air. To his relief a new point of light appeared above him, the centre around which all of the other sapphires now orbited.

Harry propped himself up against the cold stones and watched the sapphires dance, thinking of what Draco had told him about them. _"Grandmamma,"_ he'd said, and Harry wondered which one it had been. The image of the irascible Mrs. Black going behind Lucius' back to coddle a frightened child seemed so implausible that he couldn't help but chuckle, painful as that was.

Silence descended again as he cast his mind back to the other things Malfoy had said. Harry's thoughts were terribly confused; it was feelings more than words that he remembered. Draco sounding awfully sad, regretting something he had done … or no, it was something he hadn't done yet, but was going to do … something that Harry had messed up. For some reason that he couldn't put his finger on, it seemed terribly important.

Imagining that he was relating the conversation to Hermione, Harry tried to systematically sift through his memories. "Something about the hospital," he said aloud, "about St. Mungo's. Someone there didn't deserve to die—no, 'all those people,' that's what he said. And something about the Eye and a curse ... the Killing Curse, and Draco's charm, and St. Mungo's..."

Suddenly the pieces slid into place. Draco had already put a Vigilus Charm in the Eye, revealing magical activity in warded homes. It couldn't be that much of a stretch to insert a curse. That must have been what Draco was working on, the project that Bellatrix didn't want interrupted. But St. Mungo's ... surely even Voldemort wasn't crazy enough to wipe out the hospital? Even he wouldn't be immune to the public outcry after something so blatant.

"But the Mental Victims ward..." Of course! It was the perfect place for Voldemort to test his new weapon. Eighty-eight people that no one remembered. Eighty-eight people who could be wiped out with no consequence.

Harry felt ill in a way that had nothing to do with the Cruciatus Curse. The horror was unfathomable—with this kind of power, Voldemort would be unstoppable. And what it would do to Draco ... these people might not be murdered by his hand, but he was inextricably involved. _"There are worse things than dying,"_ he'd said, and Harry ached for what he was going through.

There was something more he needed to remember about St. Mungo's, though, and Harry wrestled to bring the memory into focus. But the harder he tried, the more it danced like sundogs on the edge of his vision. He was still trying to bring them into focus when he heard voices arguing outside the door.

"My orders are to let no one in."

"Your orders come from my father. I highly doubt that he was referring to _me_."

Draco, with that superior tone that had made Harry's blood boil when they were in school. Now he found himself cheering it on.

The other voice said something Harry couldn't hear, but Draco's voice came through loud and clear. "Fine, if you'd like to explain to the Dark Lord why his sacrifice is too weak to perform the ceremony, be my guest."

Obviously a convincing argument, because after another murmur, a key scraped in the door's lock. Light flooded the chamber a second later; Harry squinted and lifted his hand to cover his eyes, hearing the soft thumping sounds around him as the sapphires fell to the ground. When he moved his hand, Draco stood before him, his hawthorn drawn and levitating a tea tray. Over his shoulder, Harry saw an Auror Guard glaring at them both.

"Potter," Draco sneered. Nothing about him betrayed his earlier visit. This was the Malfoy who unquestioningly did the biddings of Voldemort. Maybe it had been a dream after all.

"Malfoy," Harry replied, matching his tone as he tried to pull himself up straighter.

"I trust you slept well?" the blond man sneered. "I thought you might be more comfortable in a cupboard, but all of our cupboards have, you know, _things_ in them."

Harry hadn't expected Draco to be decent, not with the Guard watching, but he didn't expect this kind of remark. He immediately reverted back to their Hogwarts days. "Get stuffed."

To his surprise, Draco laughed. "You're about to die, Potter, and that's the best insult you can come up with."

"Fuck you then, Malfoy. Fuck you and your family."

Draco's eyes flashed with a bright anger, the same fire Harry had always seen at school. To his surprise, it was almost reassuring. He knew how to deal with this Malfoy. "The house-elves had leftovers," Draco said contemptuously, "so I thought I might bring them down."

Draco flew the tray closer; a cup of lukewarm tea and dry toast landed by Harry's feet. He hardly glanced at it. "Your generosity astounds me."

"It's the least I could do, seeing as how you saved me the trouble of collecting you from St. Mungo's."

At Draco's bitter words, Harry suddenly remembered the thought that had eluded him earlier. _"Lucius thinks I'm still at St. Mungo's!"_ But Draco knew he wasn't; Draco knew that someone would take his place in the sacrifice.

"St. Mungo's ... you..."

His face must have betrayed his sudden realisation, for Draco cut him off suddenly. "Sweet Hyperion, Potter, but you reek."

Harry had forgotten that he'd soiled himself after being released from Lucius' curse. He was almost glad for the disgust that he saw on Draco's face. It matched his own disgust with the man.

"You," Draco called to the Auror Guard. "Go upstairs and ask my mother to find new robes for the prisoner."

The man looked stunned at the demand. "What, do I look like a house-elf to you?"

Draco smiled cruelly. "Believe me, a house-elf would be an improvement. But since they can't Apparate here, you'll have to do." The man didn't move until Draco waved his wand toward him. "Go!"

The Guard hesitated for only another second, obviously debating the wisdom of offending Voldemort's favourite family, before turning and clumping heavily up the wooden stairs. As soon as Harry was sure he was out of earshot, he turned angrily on Draco.

"You set Seamus up!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm to be the sacrifice, amn't I? Only it was going to be Seamus."

"Ah, Finnigan, was it?" Draco shrugged. "No, I didn't tell Weasley who to send. That was his choice."

Ron? Harry was taken aback for a second, but he recovered quickly. "Some choice it was. You didn't tell him what you were doing, did you?"

Draco shot him a warning glare. "Potter..."

But Harry was upset now, angry at all the machinations that had doomed his friends, that had doomed him. "Seamus was set up, wasn't he? You knew that whoever went in there would die, pretending they were me."

"Better than it really be you, Harry."

Draco's voice was so quiet that Harry almost didn't hear it. When he did, it took a moment for his mind to register the words. They threw a wrench into all his newfound fury. The Slytherin had been working every angle, he had no doubt, but Harry had thought that emotion had no part in his calculations. _"Maybe I was wrong..."_

"You said there are worse things than dying." Draco looked up sharply when Harry recited his own words. "But Draco, nobody has to die. We can stop this—Zabini and Hermione have got it all figured out."

Draco snapped his head up, his eyes widening. "Zabini?"

"Yeah, it's a complicated spell, some Egyptian thing."

Pinching his brow between his fingers, Draco groaned. "Oh Merlin, it's not one of Zabini's multi-point spells, is it? He always fucks those up."

Harry pursed his lips, his confidence wavering slightly. "It will work," he said, as firmly as possible. _"Hermione checked it out,"_ he reassured himself. _"If she thought the spell was sound, it must be."_ He felt better until another voice countered, _"If she wasn't swayed by Zabini, that is."_ Pushing his doubts away, Harry added, "And Dumbledore's Army is ready. All you need to do is lower the wards and let them in."

Draco stared with a look of utter disbelief. "Maybe you haven't noticed," he finally muttered, "but I'm hardly the one to be sharing your plans with. I could take this news to my father. Capturing Dumbledore's Army..." Draco made a derisive snorting sound. "What better way to prove my family's loyalty to our Lord?"

Harry swallowed hard. It was true, what he'd just said could well have sealed their death warrants. Draco's face gave little away; his features were steeled in the same mask that he'd worn the day before. But something in his grey eyes gave Harry hope that his faith wasn't displaced. "You won't, Draco. You don't want this." The image of the witch they'd both known flickered into his memory. "You remember Sally, don't you?" Draco looked stunned, then gave one sharp nod. "She once told me that there was no reason your future shouldn't be by my side instead of Voldemort's. I still think she's right."

Draco flashed him a cold look. "Sally's dead, Harry. She was the first sacrifice."

 _"For the first horcrux?"_ Harry was crushed, but when he looked at Draco he saw the other man was suffering more.

"It was at a Walpurgis meeting the night you disappeared. Father performed the spell to restore our memories—he'd had his all along. When I mentioned that Sally had kept hers too, the Dark Lord sent for her, and then he–"

A heavy step on the step above cut Draco's confession off mid-sentence, but Harry could imagine what came next. The same thing that he would endure the next night—excruciating pain as Voldemort toyed with him, followed by what would feel like blessed relief. "Draco," he whispered, "you can still stop this. Think about what you really want."

Grey eyes dark with anger turned to his. "Don't be so stupid, Potter. I've already made my choices—I've done things even you won't forgive. There's no fairytale happy ending here. Nobody's going to buy the Death Eater falling in love with the Boy Who Lived."

The last words were hissed just as the Auror Guard appeared in the doorway, and Harry had no time to respond. He wasn't sure he'd be able to in any case. He wanted to tell Draco that he was wrong, that there was nothing he couldn't forgive, but the darkness haunting his lover suggested that it might not be true. He wanted to say that choices could be unmade, that futures were never certain, but Draco's fortunes were wound so tightly with those of his family that this might no longer be the case. He wanted to know what Draco had meant about a Death Eater's love, but not even Harry's heart was brave enough to venture into that uncharted land.

He didn't have a chance in any case. Draco simply turned and left the room, pausing for one moment in the doorway. "I'll return for you tonight," he announced imperiously, and then he was gone.

Scowling, the Guard tossed a folded robe to Harry. He reached out to catch it, and winced as his sore arm was stretched. "So you're the Boy Hero," smirked the Guard, noticing his pain. "Definitely not what I expected."

"And you're just the Malfoys' flunky," Harry snapped back.

His courage was snapped by a blunt fist slamming into his stomach, sending him to his knees. The Guard grinned evilly down at him. "Maybe so, but I'll still be alive tomorrow." He pulled the door firmly shut; leaving Harry in the dizzying dark with more questions than answers.

The longer he stayed in the cellar, the more he realized the worst part wasn't the dark. It wasn't even the seclusion or not knowing what was happening outside. No, the thing that was driving him insane was not knowing how much time had passed. Aside from the occasional muffled sounds of Guards talking on the other side of the thick door, the day stretched into a single expanse of unbroken time. "Why did I never learn wandless magic?" he asked the sapphires who flickered attentively around him. "How hard could a Tempus Charm be?"

It was well after the hundredth time he wondered this that he heard movement outside his cell. The key turned, the door swung open, and Harry braced for the light that he knew would come flooding in. He expected to see Draco, but instead two Auror Guards filled his vision. Alone, they were large and intimidating, but together they looked like nothing less than a massive hulk of malice. "It's time to go," one said as they flanked him.

"Where are you taking me?" Harry asked, not really expecting an answer, and not getting anything more than a grunt as he was propelled up the stairs and dragged through corridors until at last they stood before a heavy carved door. One of the Auror Guards raised a ham-sized fist to knock, but paused when they heard yelling from within.

"I don't care what you do, just find him."

His keeper waited until he heard the distinctive sound of a house-elf Apparating away. He smirked—Harry could tell there was no love lost between the Malfoys and the Auror Guard—and then pounded on the door.

"Enter," came the luxuriant drawl, fully recovered.

Harry was shoved into what appeared to be an upscale branch of Borgin and Burkes. Dark wood cabinets lined the walls, displaying curious objects and ancient books. Above a grand marble fireplace was an enormous painting of wizards posed in ridiculously old-fashioned robes on the steps of the manor. The ancestral Malfoys, no doubt, for they sported the aristocratic features and haughty air of their current namesakes. Before the hearth stretched two drowsy wolfhounds. Lucius Malfoy stood above them, glaring at the fire.

Leave us," he commanded. Another shove jostled Harry forward and he landed just a few feet from Lucius. The wizard's wand was sheathed, but his critical gaze made Harry feel unsteady even after regaining his balance. "Well," he said cloyingly, "this day has certainly been long in coming. I cannot fathom how you have managed to escape your fate for so many years, Potter, but it does make tonight even more special, wouldn't you agree? The night the Boy Who Lived died. That has such a nice ring to it."

Harry clenched his fists. "The night's not over, Malfoy."

"Ah, that it is not, young Potter. That it is not. Come here, I want to show you something." His luxurious robes rippled as he beckoned Harry toward a low glass display case against the wall. "Before this night is through, you will have given your life for my Master's immortality. And for our part in this, my family will finally hold the honour we rightly deserve."

Harry stared at the bed of black velvet upon which lay a golden sword. He recognised it even before he saw the glittering rubies in its hilt. "The sword of Gryffindor," he whispered, pressing his fingers to the glass.

"It's taken years to locate this prize, and not a meagre financial investment to secure it," Lucius boasted. "But every Galleon will be well spent if it pleases my Lord. It's wonderfully fitting, is it not? To think that one of the few things capable of destroying a horcrux will actually become one."

"It won't work," Harry said confidently. "The sword's magic is more powerful than that. It will resist." He imagined the sword even destroying itself before being used in such a way.

"That would be true with an ordinary sacrifice, Harry. In fact, with anyone else, the sword's protective magic might very well cause the dark spell to backfire, doing irreparable damage to my Lord. But you underestimate your importance. Strong bonds tie you to our Lord—in many ways, you are closer to him than I can ever hope to be. Through you, through the bonds of blood and loyalty that tie you to Godric Gryffindor, He will live forever."

Lucius' words pounded Harry's gut like an invisible fist. It was true; he was the bridge between the heir of Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor. If Seamus had been the one sacrificed instead...

 _"Better than it really be you, Harry."_

Now Harry understood what Draco had meant. He'd been wrong in thinking it was emotion that had swayed Draco. The Slytherin had crafted this carefully, making sure that the real Harry Potter was as far as could be from Voldemort and the sword. No wonder he had been so upset when Harry appeared at the manor. He was a stupid Gryffindor indeed!

Lucius noticed his discomfort and smiled with satisfaction. "You don't look well, Mr. Potter. I'm sure you must be overwhelmed to know what an important part you will play tonight. Perhaps you would feel better if you sat."

He flourished his wand, and immediately a hard-backed chair appeared behind Harry. Invisible hands grasped at his arms, and as much as Harry struggled against them, they were stronger. Soon they had him sitting up uncomfortably straight, his wrists pinned to the armrests.

"There, that's much better," Lucius drawled. Tapping his wand once on the mantle, he drew a potion cup out of thin air. With another wand flourish, the cup sped toward Harry. "Here's a little something to calm your nerves."

The potion was deep red, darker than blood and twice as thick. Its surface roiled like boiled molasses, lazy bubbles rising to the top and emitting a sickly sweet smell. Harry pressed his lips together tightly as the cup moved closer to his lips, but with another swish of his wand Lucius had the chair yank his head back. Harry cried out against the sudden, sharp pain, and when he did the potion tilted into his mouth. He had no choice but to swallow every drop.

For several incredible seconds, Harry felt bliss. True bliss, as if peace had taken liquid form and was washing over him, bathing every cell in warmth and joy. The temptation to let himself soak in this pleasure was overwhelming. Here he could forget that things were terribly wrong, that he was trapped in Lucius Malfoy's study, held fast to his chair like a butterfly pinned to a mounting board. Forget that his brashness had ruined what quite possibly might be the wizarding world's best hope of doing away permanently with Voldemort. Forget that he was Harry Potter and that he was supposed to do something, anything, to stop this.

"My son should be here to see this," Lucius said bitterly, "seeing as he made this concoction just for you."

Harry wondered idly where Draco was; he thought he should have liked to see him. Draco was very pretty, when he wasn't angry. It wasn't nice when Draco was angry; his forehead went all scrunchy. Harry smiled.

"Good, it seems to be working. You're feeling the effects of _Papaver moriferum_. Initially it will affect you much like the Muggles' opium poppy. More effective than a calming draught, and we daren't trust an Imperius Curse with you tonight. Not with your history."

 _Tonight._ Harry forced open a sluggish eye. He knew he had to think about what was happening tonight. But it seemed so hard, and he was so comfortable in this chair, with these invisible arms holding him upright.

"But what I especially like are the side effects—the despair that will soon take you. It should be starting soon—let's see, shall we?"

A trunk slid magically across the floor and landed at Harry's feet. Harry smiled at it. It looked like a nice trunk, with well-worn wood, lovingly polished. He wondered what was in it—something special, surely, something wonderful and precious. Harry leaned forward eagerly, as much as his invisible restraints would allow, as the lid began to lift.

With less than an inch open, cold swept through his bones like gale-force winds, wiping out every trace of the warmth he'd felt. It was that irrepressible chill that Harry knew well, the one that presaged the arrival of Dementors and the loss of hope. Cowering in fear, he struggled against his magical bindings. He knew there couldn't be a Dementor in the box, but there was something there, and he had a hunch it was very bad. Worse than a Boggart; they weren't scary until they were visible, they could never radiate such ominous dread when the lid had only been cracked a few inches.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away. _"Nononononononono,"_ he chanted to himself. He could hear the lid crack wider, ready to release whatever horror was inside. Any second now his nightmares would attack, and he was unable to do anything but snivel helplessly.

"Continiosa!"

The lid slammed shut at the angry command. Letting out one last choked sob, Harry pried open his eyes. Draco stood beside him, his forehead scrunched in anger, but he wasn't looking at Harry. He was addressing his father. "What are you doing? He can't handle a Chimaera Chamber on top of the potion!"

"Finally, you grace us with your presence. I told Lubby I wanted to see you."

"I was finalising the spell. I didn't realise that taunting the sacrifice was more important than making sure it worked."

"I thought you were finished. Draco, we can afford no mistakes tonight..."

The air crackled as the two men sparred, not noticing as Harry winced in fear at their angry exchange. He knew that something was about to happen that was even worse than what was in the trunk. What he didn't know was whether it would happen while they were arguing or when they finally finished.

But he did know that his situation was hopeless. Tonight he would die, like he had been meant to die all those year ago. Dumbledore had known it, Snape had known it, Harry himself had accepted it as the truth. Who was he to fight against his legacy? For the past five years, he had not been the Boy Hero; without Voldemort's soul in him, he had not been a powerful wizard. He had only been Harry Potter, the most ordinary of men. And it was well past time for him to face his fate.

Draco must have had the same thought, for he broke away from his father and looked for the first time at Harry. His eyes were as hard as concrete, his jaw set stiff as iron.

"It's nearly midnight," he said, and Harry heard the determination in his voice. "We must go."


	18. Quam Terribilis Est Haec Hora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Quam terribilis est haec hora**  
>  How fearful is this hour_

Wiltshire had always been a place of magic. Every young wizard learned of Avebury's enchantments before he dared fly his first broom over its alluring stones, and every young witch's heart beat faster when she heard of the wizard king's tragic quest to transfigure the White Horses. Even Muggles were not so oblivious as to discount the power of the ring at Stonehenge.

Tonight, all of this magic was eclipsed by the Dark Mark hanging in the sky.

Harry could sense the Dark Magic that converged under its malevolent green gaze. It pulsed through the plains of Salisbury, coursed through the veins of the wandering vales, thrummed through the lavish grounds of the Malfoy estate. From where he lay on his back, paralyzed by the potion and still dizzy from Lucius' Side-Along-Apparition, Harry felt it beat so strong and true that he knew he rested directly upon its heart.

The vision above him shifted and swayed, buffeted by the winds but never losing its hideous form. Never stopped glowering down at Harry, reminding him that there was no escape. In its cadaverous grin Harry was enthralled, and it took every ounce of his strength just to tear his gaze away.

When he finally did, he could survey the small meadow where he lay. The ring of trees around the clearing was close, and almost perfectly round, clearly the effect of generations of meticulous grooming. In its centre stood a white marble altar, built for what nefarious purpose Harry could only imagine. The stones stood about as high as a man's waist and about twice that across; around its base were carved what looked to be the faces of demons screaming in agony. Before long, Harry suspected that his screams would join theirs.

Harry searched the clearing for Voldemort, but he was nowhere to be seen. The Death Eaters were there, however—less than a dozen, fewer than Harry had expected, but still enough to fill him with dread. He tried to see who was present, but it was impossible to even find Draco's familiar form among them; their dark robes ran together like unblotted ink. Not that it mattered now. Draco had tried to stop this and Harry had botched his plans. Now the Slytherin was playing the part he must to survive. Even Draco's argument with his father, rather than giving Harry hope, had only convinced him that Voldemort's ascent was inevitable.

 _"Snap out of it!"_ Harry upbraided himself as his despondency grew. _"This is the potion, that's all."_ His friends were still out there, Draco surely had more plans up his sleeve, and if he could find the strength he might still escape. When those thoughts proved too difficult to believe, he tried to simply imagine that tiny blue sapphires were floating above him instead of the Dark Mark. But his mind refused to even grant him that little remembrance of hope, and his limbs hung lifelessly, too weak even to crawl the few feet into the forest.

Something crawled out to meet him instead.

"Master said you would be here."

"Kalfu!" Although he'd suspected that he would see the young cobra tonight, his sudden appearance made even Harry's leaden limbs spasm. Even more shocking was the thought that the snake's coming signalled Voldemort's. "Is he here?"

"Soon He will arrive. He prepares himself even now." Kalfu slithered closer, stopping just a few inches from Harry's face, so close that Harry could feel its beady black eyes examining him. "You serve a special purpose."

"Right, so that sick bastard can make another horcrux." An invincible one this time. The despair Harry had tried so hard to fight flooded through him again. If only he hadn't come ... if only they'd found some other way to rescue Seamus ... if only he'd died the first time, when people still remembered the evil they needed to fight...

Kalfu interrupted his despondent thoughts. "You do not wish to serve my Master?" he asked, obviously confused. "But he is the most powerful wizard in the world. And you..." Harry had not thought a snake could manage disdain, but this one was pulling it off. "You are pathetic and weak."

His words were a lavish buffet feeding Harry's doubts. He _was_ pathetic and weak, just an ordinary wizard with no hope of defeating Britain's darkest wizard. Drugged and wandless, he couldn't even take on this young snake. Giving up, Harry let his eyelids close. "Perhaps. Still, no one wants to die."

"I can't die," the snake boasted. "There is no wizard or witch who can kill me. My Master has made sure of it."

Harry could do little more than groan. Two invincible horcruxes—the world would never be free of Voldemort. "How...?" he started, but the snake didn't answer. At that moment, the air changed, suddenly feeling heavier and as laden with dread as Harry's thoughts.

"He is here," hissed Kalfu, and slithered across the dead leaves.

Harry's eyes followed, his gaze landing on the man who had just entered the clearing. The Death Eaters rushed towards him like the gaggle around the pigeon lady at Trafalgar Square. Towering over them was the face of Harry's nightmares, with a bare sloping forehead and narrow slits in place of his nose, and gleaming red eyes that made him less than human, more than a wizard. The sight of his enemy banished the last vestiges of hope from Harry's mind. Voldemort was alive and well, radiating more power than ever before.

"Tonight is a very special night," the wizard proclaimed, his high voice carrying over the pregnant air to where Harry lay. "Tonight I will harness fear and master death. At midnight, at the moment when the longest night becomes the shortest day, I will become invincible. And you, my loyal followers, for giving me your magic at the time of the breaking, you will become powerful beyond your wildest dreams."

A self-satisfied murmur rose amongst the death eaters, but it faded when Voldemort lifted a twisted finger. "You, my chosen few, are here tonight because you have proven yourself. Your loyalty will not be forgotten ... just as your betrayal will never be forgiven. What happens tonight must never be spoken of, even amongst yourselves. More, you will each foreswear to repeat this spell, under pain of death and my displeasure. I will require an unbreakable vow from each of you."

There were murmurs from the Death Eaters, and then one stepped forward immediately and bowed before the snakelike creature. "I gladly take this vow, my Lord."

Bellatrix, it must be. None else would fall over themselves to bond with Voldemort. Harry shuddered as he remembered those self-inflicted wounds in her desperation to prolong his torturous touch.

"Do you, Bellatrix Lestrange, willingly take part in this ceremony and promise to carry out what is required this night?"

"I do, my Lord, most willingly." Her words rang clearly across the wood, sounding as bright as if she was promising her hand in marriage.

"And will you keep the events of this night forever silent, never speaking the magic of the horcrux to another person?"

"I swear it, my Lord."

Lucius Malfoy was next, followed by Narcissa and then Draco. Harry listened carefully for Draco's voice to waver, but although it lacked Bellatrix' passion, it was strong and clear. The two Lestrange brothers, then the Carrows, and finally Nebediah Nott and his son Theodore were quickly foresworn. All relatives, Harry noticed. Idly he wondered if, being an orphan like himself, Tom Riddle realised the value in protecting one's family. He certainly had manipulated it where Draco was concerned.

These musings were shattered with the words he dreaded. "And now, the sacrifice." Voldemort extended his wand towards Harry. The air around him seemed to swell, and then Harry was riding on it to the centre of the clearing, landing not uncomfortably on the stone altar. The Dark Mark above him writhed; Harry wondered whether it was his imagination that it seemed closer now, and that much brighter. He lurched away from its sight, starting when he realised that there on the slab beside him was Gryffindor's sword. Its gilded handle lay just mere inches away from his face—so close he could easily take it in hand if not for his moribund arms. But even that simple movement took too great an effort, leaving him panting in exhaustion. Death Eaters moved beside him, surrounding him like in his dreams. Voldemort stood at the foot of the stone, the whistle of his voice and his wheezing breath uncomfortably close.

"My, my, Harry Potter, it is such a pleasure to see you again. I expect you missed me as much as I did you."

"Hardly," Harry croaked. He cleared his throat, determined to make his voice stronger. "It was nice when everybody had forgotten about you."

"But you were forgotten, too. How did it feel to be a nobody, Harry? I would think that you, of all people, would have found that a bitter pill to swallow."

"I liked it," Harry said, and it wasn't a lie. "I liked who I was."

"Who you were?" Voldemort scoffed. "You were merely a lackey in a pet store. You had a thoroughly meaningless life ... the great Boy Hero, living amongst Muggles!" The other Death Eaters joined in his mocking laughter. "And then you even deigned to take a pure-blood lover. Did you really believe you could command his loyalty over mine? How very foolish of you." His voice grew darker and the others' laughter faded. Doubt tugged at the hem of Harry's resolve, but it didn't start to unravel until Voldemort called, "Draco, come before me."

One of the Death Eaters moved forward, silver strands of hair spilling over the collar of his dark robe; then Kalfu glided over Harry's leg, distracting him as the man passed out of his vision. "That is your mate?" the snake hissed.

"Hush," Harry hissed back, wanting and at the same time not wanting to hear what was said to Draco.

"I have you to thank for bringing Potter to me, do I not?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"He was your lover? You cared enough for this man that you disobeyed your father's wishes for a pure-blood heir?"

"He was, my Lord, and I did."

Harry was surprised; Draco had never before mentioned this.

"But now you give him up willingly to me?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"I am afraid, Draco, that I will need you to prove this to me."

There was the briefest of pauses before Draco asked, "Of course, my Lord. What would you have me do?"

"Cruciate him."

"Cr–cruciate?" For the first time, Draco's voice broke.

"Why, Draco, you have demonstrated your skill with this spell before. Do you have a problem with it now?"

"No, my Lord," Draco quickly assured him. "But the potion ... it is extremely potent. He would not survive being cruciated."

 _"Do it!"_ Harry wanted to scream. _"Kill me so he can't make the horcrux!"_ But the words choked in his throat, and Voldemort continued with his manipulations.

"Ah, that is a pity. Perhaps you would prefer a different target." The creature gloated as he called out, "Narcissa?"

"Yes, my Lord?" answered one of the Death Eaters standing in Harry's vision.

"Would you have your son prove that there is nothing more important than his loyalty to me?"

Narcissa drew herself up straighter. "Of course, my Lord," she said, her voice surprisingly strong even when faced with receiving an Unforgivable. "You know that my family is and has always been at your service. I am sure that Draco had nothing more in his mind when he first turned Harry Potter over to you, my Lord."

Narcissa sounded genteel and accommodating, yet reminded Voldemort of what Draco had already done. It was an eminently reasonable approach and Harry was impressed. But then, Voldemort had never been one to listen to reason.

"Yes, it is true, the Malfoys have done much to regain their place in my esteem." But then his voice turned to contempt. "It is unfortunate there was such deceit before." Even without seeing him, Harry could feel Voldemort step closer. He changed something in the very air with his presence, making it hard for Harry to breathe. "Somehow I doubt the reasons for the boy's hesitation. Is it truly because of the potion? Not because your heart is still tainted with feelings for that half-blood?"

"It is the potion, my Lord, I swear it," Draco said, his voice pitched high with nervousness. "There is an antidote—I have prepared it already, if you would have me get it..."

"Silence!" Voldemort's voice boomed through the clearing, jolting the Death Eaters as much as Harry. "We have no time for this nonsense. Draco, you will cruciate your mother. Now!"

Harry stared aghast at Narcissa, knowing that at any second Draco would cast the spell and she would writhe in agony. But that didn't happen. Instead shouts rang from the woods around him. Within a heartbeat the quiet was shattered by curses and jinxes, jags of colour and ricocheted sounds flying out of the velvety darkness. The Death Eaters were taken by complete surprise, diving for cover and firing retaliatory spells. Harry winced as a Knob-Kneed Jinx came whirling like a snowball at Narcissa; she narrowly avoided it, sending an answering Tarantallegra back into the forest. A milder curse than he would have expected of her, but in the distance, he heard other Death Eaters firing off Unforgivables.

Harry seemed forgotten for the moment, which was just as well since he could do nothing but get in the way. It also meant that he was the only one who noticed when Kreacher appeared on the slab beside him. "Master, we've come for you," gushed the house-elf in greeting, but Harry couldn't reply; he was too astonished to see his elf heft the sword of Gryffindor over his shoulder.

Kreacher leapt off the slab and ran toward Kalfu, who had slithered off the altar as soon as the battle began. "The Dark Lord will never defeat my Master," the elf proclaimed as he caught up with the snake, slashing at it with the heavy blade. Buoyed by the promise of his own invulnerability, Kalfu rose as if charmed by a flute. His hood flared wide and his tongue flickered as he swayed. Suddenly he darted swiftly at the elf; Harry winced, but his bite narrowly missed Kreacher's shoulder. The elf's face registered shock that rapidly turned to resolve. His expression as steeled as the blade in his hand, he drew back the sword and, with a single smooth slice, beheaded the grey serpent.

Harry gasped. No witch or wizard might kill Kalfu, but house-elves had obviously been overlooked. Stunned by this unexpected victory, Harry hardly heard the frantic voice calling his name. "Harry!" it repeated, and he looked up to see Draco, pale and ghostlike even without his Death Eaters' mask. "Take your wand. It's in the pocket of my robe."

 _"Don't do it!"_ hissed the last dregs of his potion-induced paranoia, sure that this was one last trick, but Harry rebuked it. _"Trust Draco,"_ he told himself, even as the voice broke through again, more insistent. "Harry, now!" And as the last of his doubt went crawling away, Harry summoned his last ounce of strength and reached for his wand.

And then the unmistakeable tug of a Portkey pulled him away from Draco.

He landed so close that he could still hear the fighting nearby, the shouts of spells and the stinging sizzle of curses ringing through the night. But here, shaded in a hidden copse of trees, all was quiet. And he was surrounded by his friends. He gazed in astonishment at the people he'd thought he'd never see again, Hermione and Ron, and Luna, Neville, even Zabini. It must be a dream ... or maybe he was dead. Either explanation seemed plausible, and made more sense than any other.

Without wasting a second, Hermione tilted his head back and poured a cold potion down his throat. "Swallow, Harry. It's the antidote." He obeyed, drinking down the liquid ice that seemed to freeze his limbs. He shuddered, hardly noticing the woollen blanket that Luna draped over his shoulders.

"You'll feel cold, Harry. That means the Wake Robin's working. You'll be disoriented too, but we need you here, Harry. Do you hear me?"

Hermione's face shifted in and out of focus as he fought to make sense of her words. It was all he could do not to just curl up and sleep for a month. But there was something more, something he needed to think about, some reason they were all here. "Hermione ... you're here ... and Ron..."

Ron gave him a wide grin. "Malfoy dropped the wards. You were right about him, mate."

"We only have a few seconds," Hermione added. "Do you think you can remember our spell? Gran learned it just in case, but we really need her and Xeno for the Protego spells."

Harry searched his memory for the incantation he'd learned just a few days earlier. It seemed like ages ago, but gradually he pulled them from the attic of his mind, dusty and tattered—the words that would splinter Voldemort's aspect of sight, and the ones to meld his spell with the others', and still more to dispel all these fragments of his consciousness into nothingness. Once certain he had them all, Harry nodded.

"Gotta get you on your feet then," said Ron with equal parts determination and encouragement. "You need to be able to see Malfoy ... um, _Draco_ Malfoy that is, when he stands on the altar."

"Draco? I don't remember that..."

"Yeah, that was Draco's idea," explained Blaise sheepishly. "Spells like these do best with a focal point. You'll do the exact same spell, only direct it at him instead of You Know Who."

That must've been what Draco had meant when he'd said the Zabini always fucked up these kinds of spells. It was just like Draco to point out the mistake. But it wasn't like Draco to put himself in the line of fire. "No ... no, no, no." Harry's protests bubbled off his tongue before his mind even had a chance to form its objections. His only thought was that Draco was in peril, and Harry could not allow that. "I should be out there, if anyone."

"Not in the shape you're in, Harry," scolded Hermione as Ron helped him struggle to his feet. "Besides, he volunteered. He knows what he's doing."

Of course Draco knew what he was doing—he always did. But sacrificing himself like this was the most un-Slytherin thing that Harry had ever heard, and it made him feel deeply uncomfortable.

"We really need to get on with this," Zabini interrupted, his voice urgent. "Ready, Harry?"

Standing on his own two feet, Harry braced himself against his dizziness. He looked through the trees, at the hazy shadows that swirled and unblurred and became the crisp outlines of fighters. He didn't see Draco.

"Ready," he called.

Neville fired a hail of golden sparks into the air. Before they'd even begun their descent, Draco climbed onto the altar. He'd abandoned his mask; he looked nothing like a Death Eater now, more like the thin boy Harry had known in school. He raised his wand before him in the traditional duelling pose and Harry probably only imagined his determined nod.

"Now," said Neville.

 _"Dido dididi didtum..."_ they began in unison before veering off into their individual spells. _Uisus_ , _auditus_ , _gustus_ , _ororatus_ , _tactus_ , _mens mentis_ , each one a separate aspect of the wizard's consciousness, each one a piece they could detach and divide, fractioning it into infinity. The spell left Harry's wand as an emerald tendril that spiralled through the trees. It bisected the cobalt wisp from Ron's wand, the golden curls from Luna's. The strands of light dove and danced, catching Neville's scarlet stream and Blaise's orange, with Hermione's silver-blue strand weaving through them all. Each colour corresponded with an aspect of the eye of Horus, but Harry had paid scant attention to Hermione's explanations. Instead he'd only thought how beautiful they looked racing through the Lovegood's field. Now, lighting the dark night with their glistening hues, they were truly breathtaking.

Until they hit their target.

When the spells struck Draco with the force of six curses, he lurched forward as though he might fall. He kept his balance, however, even as the tinted trails flowed into him. Harry stared at Malfoy, who seemed to glow for just a moment as the luminescent magic pooled inside him. Then suddenly from his wand rushed a torrent of colour, a dammed rainbow that had just broken free. Their shades looked richer, more vibrant, and their girth spread as they flowed through Draco's wand towards their target.

Harry felt as much as heard Voldemort's scream. It pierced the sky with righteous indignation, completely obscuring the sounds of the surrounding battle. And then it turned to hatred as the Dark Lord attacked his attacker. Harry watched in horror as angry green sparks veered toward the altar, knowing at any moment the Killing Curse would fell Draco. But before it could hit, a rapid fire of Protego spells came from both sides. It was Xeno and Editha, Harry realised, deflecting the curse. He breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring the niggling voice that told him they'd just gotten lucky that time.

All of a sudden Draco's slim body spasmed violently. Harry panicked—had a curse gotten through after all? But when he saw the unbroken stream flowing from Draco's wand into Voldemort, he knew what was happening. Zabini had warned them that their spells would act as a two-way conduit, with backlash as pieces of the tattered senses flowed back to them. Individually it would not have had much of an effect, but Draco was taking the full blow. "No," Harry protested, for Draco could not do this. For whatever reckless reason he'd had to volunteer, he would not have wanted _this_.

But Neville ignored him. "Again!" he commanded.

Their voices rose up once again, and once again their spells shot forward, illuminating Draco and strengthening the river of magic flowing from his wand. "Again!" Neville shouted as soon as their spells had cleared their wands, and then, "Again!" Soon there was as solid a channel from their wands to Draco as there was between him and the Dark Lord. And it was horrific. Through this connection, Harry felt everything that Voldemort felt. It was the violent anguish of a soul being ripped apart, it was the angry grappling of claws shredding the fabric of life, it was hoary protestations against eternal death and damnation. It was the realisation of Voldemort's imminent death and his vow not to go gently into its embrace.

And Harry was only feeling a sixth of what Draco was feeling.

"Again ..."

"Again ..."

"Again ..."

Endlessly they chanted the spell, countless rounds of divisions, 1/2, 1/4, 1/8, 1/16, 1/32, 1/64, 1/128, 1/256 ... Soon Harry lost count of the numbers, but he knew he would never forget the intense pain that bolted through him with each fraction. The others also felt the recoil of Voldemort's shattering soul, he could see it in their faces, but none were absorbing it like Draco. The man was barely standing, his limbs limp and his head slack. Like a marionette he was held up merely by the band of colour running through him, buffeted between the violent jolts of Voldemort's Unforgivables and the protection spells repelling them.

"How much longer?" called Ron. It was a question that Harry had been wondering for a while now. Zabini had assured them that Voldemort would only be dangerous in the first few moments, when his soul was strongest, but even with only a fraction of his soul left he was still strong enough to fire another Killing Curse that Xeno deflected just seconds before it struck.

"Again!" was Neville's only answer, so Harry gritted his teeth and fired. Voldemort's howl seemed to grow even louder, perhaps, he hoped, even a little more desperate. Harry wished he could see him, sure that his physical form would betray how close he was to defeat. But all he could see was Draco, looking more puppet-like than ever, and it was so very wrong that he looked that way now, when he was acting like anything _but_. Harry shuddered and shut his eyes against the sight.

When he reopened them, Draco was gone.

Ron yelled for him to wait, but there was no power that could have held Harry back. It was only when he Disapparated beside Draco that he realised how strange it was that he could indeed hear Ron's voice. Voldemort's screams were still ringing in his head, but it was only their artefacts; the woods were eerily quiet, the sounds of the battle had long since stilled.

Draco was still too, lying where he'd fallen after his strings were cut. Deathly pale, he reminded Harry of a wilted wildflower. Voldemort, on the other hand, looked more like a huge black crow that had just careened into a windscreen. His limbs were splayed and his arms twitched helplessly as Bill and Charlie Weasley approached him with wands drawn.

"Is he all right?"

Harry looked to see where the voice came from. The Death Eaters were gathered near where the Dark Lord lay, surrounded by members of the DA. From among them shone a head as fair as the one motionless beside him. She stepped forward, her motherly concern brokering her way through her guards. "Is my son all right?" Narcissa asked again.

Harry wished he could answer, but his hand fumbling for a pulse under his skin felt nothing. The man felt as cold as the stone altar on which they lay. "Draco," he hissed, "don't you dare die on me."

Narcissa's sob pierced the silence just as a motion caught his eye. She moved quick as lightning, escaping her guards to seize the sword of Gryffindor. Before the DA could react, she had raised it above her head and plunged it deep into Voldemort's chest. There was one violent jerk, a sickly wheeze, and then the darkest wizard ever known to Britain expired.

At that moment, Harry felt the faintest heartbeat against his fingertips. Little more than a flutter, it was enough to make Harry's own jump for joy. "St. Mungo's," he said to Hermione and Ron, who were racing towards him, before he scooped Draco into his arms and Apparated them away.

The fourth floor of St. Mungo's had only a tiny waiting area, crammed uncomfortably full with uncomfortable chairs. Most visitors spent their time in the tearoom upstairs, only passing through the dingy quarters on the way to see their loved ones. But if anyone had happened to pass through at two o'clock that Sunday morning, he would have seen a young man who had spent hours rolling his wand between his palms, staring as the patterns in the tile floor as they arranged and rearranged themselves again and again.

The door swung open, but it was the wrong door, and the young man didn't look up. Two new visitors came in, one sitting on each side of them. The woman took his hand, winding her fingers through his.

"How is he?"

"The Healers still won't tell me anything." Harry swallowed his bitterness, realising it was unfair. In a more reasonable tone, he said, "They say it'll be a while before they know anything."

Hermione nodded. "I'm sure they're doing all they can. I'm sure he'll be all right." Harry nodded too, although he didn't feel nearly as confident.

"He sure came through tonight," Ron said. Harry wondered what that admission had cost him. "I admit I was ready to murder him when he showed up after you'd gone missing. But then he said you'd told him about the DA. We figured you wouldn't have said anything about that unless he was on our side."

 _"That sneaky Slytherin,"_ Harry thought, his lips itching to twitch up into a smile. That's where he'd been while Lucius fumed and taunted Harry. "And he dropped the wards so you were able to get in to the estate," he concluded.

"He dropped the wards everywhere," said Hermione. "The Eye's completely down."

"Unravelled like a holey sock," Ron chimed in. "Plus he told us about the charm on the snake—said Kreacher would have to take him out. I never thought I'd say this, but if Malfoy pulls through, he deserves an Order of Merlin."

" _When_ he pulls through," corrected Hermione, giving Ron the evil eye.

"Yeah, that's what I meant. I'm sure he'll be fine, Harry."

But Harry's brain had already seized up, shuddering to a standstill like Uncle Vernon's sedan after its battery gave up the ghost. For several long moments he sat without a word, forcing his heart to keep beating, for oxygen to keep flowing through his body. These once-automatic functions now required every bit of his concentration; he could no longer trust them to chance.

But gradually Hermione's hand squeezing his brought him back. As he relaxed his control, he remembered the others that had fought beside them that night. "How did we do?" he asked, not sure if he was ready for the answer.

"We lost two: Elsinore Shouldice and Michael Corner," Hermione said quietly. "Rabastan Lestrange caught him in a killing curse. Bill managed to stun Lestrange, but it was too late."

Harry's heart dropped more at the news. He had not known Elsinore well, she was one of the newer recruits, but he was deeply upset by the fate of his Ravenclaw classmate. His young wife must be grieving tonight.

"Aside from that, we came out fairly well. Angelina sprained her ankle diving away from a Cutting Curse, and George got a bad burn in some crossfire. Some other scrapes and bruises, but nothing too serious."

"And the Death Eaters?"

"Four in custody," Ron informed him. "Lucius Malfoy is dead, and both Carrows, and Bellatrix. Mum used the Killing Curse on her—can you believe it?"

Harry could. He'd seen Molly's determination after Fred's death. He reckoned even Voldemort wasn't brave enough to cross her. That thought brought him back to Draco's mother. "And Narcissa? She's all right?"

"She is. Worried about Draco, I'd imagine."

"Neville's keeping her under guard at Auror HQ," Ron added. "The Ministry lock-up is full of Auror Guards at the moment."

"Auror Guards?" Harry was dumbfounded. "They're under arrest?"

"And off to Azkaban soon." Ron noticed before noticing Harry's confusion. "Merlin, Harry, did you not know about that? Half the DA was rounding them up while the other half covered us. It was Malfoy's idea to strike on both fronts so they couldn't retaliate. And they sure didn't see it coming."

"That's ... that's great," Harry said, remembering the thugs who'd manhandled him at the manor and feeling pleased that they'd gotten their comeuppance. "But what do the Aurors have on them?"

"For a while, Neville's thought they were the ones working with the Squibs on all those attacks. Didn't have any proof until Malfoy confirmed it. It explains why we could never catch anybody. A few confessions under Veritaserum and it shouldn't be hard to get sentences."

Harry nodded absently, his thoughts already drifting. He wanted to care about their lives going forward. Justice had been a long time coming, and more horrors had been committed than ever before. He wanted to be ecstatic that they'd stopped him, forever this time; the Dark Wizard would never again haunt Britain's shores. But try as he might, he couldn't ignite the passion he should have felt. His emotions were bruised from the revelations of this night, catapulting him from the certainty of his own death to the desolation and despair he felt at the prospect of Draco's.

Hermione must have read his mind, for she squeezed his hand tightly. "He will be okay, Harry."

Harry just nodded again.

His friends stayed with him, but thankfully didn't say much more. In fact, Ron's head was soon tilted over the back of his chair, his snores strangely comforting. Hermione was struggling to stay awake, too, making sudden jerking motions whenever she caught herself drifting off. Harry was beyond exhaustion, but he could not bring himself to close his eyes. Each time he did he saw a wilted wildflower, withering in the sun.

After another hour, a Healer finally emerged. He scanned the three visitors, wondering which one to address before addressing them all together. "You're waiting for news of Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes," Harry said, lurching to his feet. "Is he all right?"

"I'm Healer Grublock, I was one of the Healer's trying to stabilise his magic. It was wildly erratic, so much so it interfered with his bodily functions—frankly, I've never seen anything like it. We've been able to ease it somewhat, although we're keeping a close eye on him to make sure that it doesn't spike again. At the moment, I'm afraid there's not much else we can do."

Harry sensed Hermione beside him, squeezing his hand, but it felt like it was happening to someone else. "Can I see him?"

"Not yet—not until we're sure another magical presence won't upset his balance. I'll let you know as soon as anything changes."

Healer Grublock returned to the ward and Harry buried his face in his hands, frustration and fear warring for control. Hermione squeezed his shoulder and guided him back to his chair. "You should rest, Harry. It could be a long night."

"I can't. Not until I see him."

She cast a Warming Charm on their half-empty teacups. "At least drink that, then."

Harry cradled the steaming cup in his hands but didn't lift it to his mouth. "I just don't understand why he'd do that."

"Do what, Harry?"

"Put himself in danger. That's not like Draco."

Hermione frowned. "But he's changed a lot since school. Maybe he wanted to be a hero."

Harry shook his head vehemently. "No, that's not the way he thinks." That wasn't Slytherin enough—the only heroes were those left standing at the end of the day; Draco found no glory in dying.

"I'm sure you'll be able to ask him yourself, soon enough," Hermione reassured him blithely.

About an hour later, the door from the emergency ward swung open again. Harry looked up in surprise to see Healer Bulstrode before him. "Millicent?"

She smiled wryly at him. "Hello, Harry. I thought you might be here."

Harry didn't know if she still believed he was a patient or if she knew he'd been gone for a week. Curious as he was, he put that all aside to ask the only questions that mattered. "Have you been with Draco? How is he?"

Her smile evaporated. "It's hard to say. He hasn't regained consciousness, but he seems to respond to Vertigizing Charms."

"Vertigizing Charms?" asked Hermione. "Aren't those for children?"

Millicent peered at Hermione as if seeing her for the first time. "Normally, yes. They're used with imbalanced magic, and we see that mostly in children. They absorb too much, like sponges. But even then," she said, returning her gaze to Harry, "I've never seen a child as unstable as Draco was when you brought him in. Could you tell me anything more about this spell?" When Harry hesitated, not sure what else he could add, the Healer misinterpreted his reasons. "I know we've had our differences," she said, "and maybe you don't think you have reason to trust me. But Draco is my friend. If I can do anything to help him, I will."

Millicent's sincerity was obvious, and at that moment Harry truly appreciated her presence. "I told the other Healers all I know, but Hermione knows the spell inside and out. She can explain it better than I ever could."

Harry took the seat beside Ron as Hermione and the Healer broke down the mechanics of the spell. Millicent seemed particularly intrigued by the feedback effect they'd created; somehow Hermione was able to explain it in precise clinical terms, while Harry could only shudder to recall Voldemort's anger roiling through him.

"Draco's a lot braver than I'd given him credit for."

Harry gaped at Ron, wondering again what these kinds of admissions were costing him. His friend just shrugged. "It took a lot for him to do that. He didn't have to."

"I still don't know why he did."

"Maybe he wanted to be on the right side for a change."

Harry shook his head. That wasn't the answer either. Draco wanted to be on the _winning_ side. He must have thought they could win ... but they couldn't, not without his help. There was that self-sacrifice again, and Harry couldn't reconcile it with what he knew of the Slytherin.

Millicent, having finished her discussion, stood to go. "This is all very interesting," she told Hermione. "I want to talk with Healer Grublock and see if he has any more ideas." She turned to Harry. "I'll be back once I have some news."

She couldn't get away, however, because Harry had a tight grasp on her arm. "Please, let me see him."

The Healer hesitated. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea. He's still unconscious, and if you're upset it might unbalance him again. It could be dangerous."

"I promise I'll stay in control. Please," he pleaded, "I need to see him."

Millicent pursed her lips, then nodded. "Very well. Come with me."

He followed her into a small private room. It was dimly lit, with just a few candles floating behind Draco's head. In their soft light he somehow looked paler than before. Harry noticed that someone had combed his hair (Millicent, perhaps?), carefully arranging it to conceal the raw spot on his scalp. His face reflected the same peace he had while sleeping in Harry's bed, but his fine-boned features had reverted to their former sharpness, and his arms, positioned outside the bedcovers in straight parallel lines, were almost twig-like. He looked far older than his twenty-three years.

Millicent spelled a chair for him and Harry sat down. "Can ... can I touch him?"

"I don't think it would do any harm," she said gently.

Cautiously, Harry reached for his hand. "You healed his arms," he murmured gratefully.

"His arms, his chest, his back..." Her voice was hard. "I take it that wasn't part of the spell?"

"No," Harry said grimly, "that was just torture."

"By You Know Who?"

Harry looked at her in surprise. "You remember?"

Millicent sat beside him, squinting as she tried to put her thoughts into words. "I'm not sure if you'd call it a memory, exactly. It's just an idea that's appeared in my head, and I'm not sure where it came from. It's been happening all night—it's terribly confusing, to tell you the truth. I'm not sure if it's real or just what I've heard from patients..."

She stopped suddenly, realising who she was speaking to. Harry realised he'd been gripping Draco's hand too tightly, and he forced his fingers to relax. "Hermione said it was like reading two history books and knowing only one could be true," he said quietly. "But it is real."

"Then I owe you an apology. I guess I owe apologies to a lot of people."

Harry shook his head. "It was a spell, you couldn't help it. Besides, you told Draco where I was, didn't you?"

"Not exactly. He wouldn't let me say—I would have lost my job—but he knew all right. He even gave me an alibi when you escaped."

"He always has everything figured out," Harry agreed.

He and Millicent sat in silence. Harry had expected to be left alone with Draco, but strangely he didn't find the Healer's presence discomforting. Together they watched Draco's chest rise and fall, its steady rhythm lulling them both into a hopeful peace.

"He looks like he's sleeping."

"It's deeper than sleep," Millicent answered. "He hasn't responded to any rejuvenating draughts. We think his system overloaded when he intercepted so much magic." She shook her head. "Draco would have known how dangerous that was. I don't understand why he'd have put himself in that position."

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. It was the same question he'd been struggling with all night. "Why do you think he did?" he asked, hoping that another Slytherin might have better reasons than heroism and just causes.

"I really don't know," she said, but offered no further explanation. The room descended into silence again, and Harry clenched his teeth in frustration as the question consumed him. What had changed Draco's mind? Not just about helping—he could have done that with little risk to himself—but to put himself in such danger?

Just when Harry thought that Millicent was not going to answer, she spoke again. "You told me about the things that we did to you in school. I remember enough to know that you and Draco were enemies. Maybe he thought you'd hate him when this was over ... maybe he wasn't planning to survive."

 _"Don't be so stupid, Potter. I've already made my choices—I've done things even you won't forgive."_

Harry felt the Healer's words weave within Draco's, braiding together as tightly as their spells had earlier, and striking him with the same force that had struck Voldemort. The fragile calm he'd clung to all night shook, exposing a hairline fracture in his sanity, in his soul. Allowed to grow, it would split him, too, into halves, quarters, eighths, sixteenths...

The walls seemed to press in on him, making it suddenly hard to breathe. Harry knew he had to be alone with Draco. "Can you leave us, please?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"I shouldn't—you're not even supposed to be here."

Harry felt his anger churn with magic. He had to be with Draco, of that he was certain, and nobody was going to stay in his way. Not a request this time, he said, "You need to leave us." He hadn't used the Imperius Curse on the Healer, but the effect was the same. Millicent might have frowned when she stood up, but she left the room without a second glance. She shut the door behind her, but Harry warded it for good measure before rounding on the still figure in the bed.

"That's it, isn't it?" he asked angrily, whirling around to face the sleeping patient. "Millicent was right. Once you remembered, you thought I'd hate you, didn't you? Did you think this would be some kind of penance for letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts? Or maybe for dressing up like a Dementor and scaring me half out of my wits? Merlin, Draco, you were a fucking prat back then, but you do _not_ get to decide whether I hate you for it or not. You do not get to decide what I won't forgive." Potions bottles rattled on their shelf as Harry's anger thickened and escaped into the room. He ignored them, pacing back and forth beside the bed. "Do you hear me? You're not supposed to be brave! You're not supposed to be a hero—not if it gets you killed!"

A bottle gave up its precarious perch and fell to the ground, shattering with a slight hiss of steam as its contents escaped. Harry stared at the spreading liquid, suddenly remembering Millicent's cautions against his anger. He dropped helplessly into the empty chair. "You listen to me, Draco. The only thing I'll hate is if you don't come back to me. If I lose you now, I won't forgive..." He shuddered and buried his head in his arms on the bed—not to cry, he was far past the point of sobbing, although that would have been a welcome relief. He felt as thin and fragile as an old teacup, ready to break along any one of a thousand cracks.

Bone tired, and beyond anger, he transfigured the bed, making it large enough for two. He toed off his shoes and gently slid between the covers. He didn't dare touch yet, not with his emotions still coursing through him. For the moment, he was content simply to watch Draco sleep. The man's face, still as marble, really did look like he was asleep. Harry could almost pretend it was an ordinary morning in Greenwich, the first morning rays creeping past the drapes and enticing Harry to watch over his lover.

Slowly, Draco's peace ebbed into him. Finally feeling in full control of his emotions, Harry reached out to him, his fingers finding the triangle of bare skin at the neck of his pyjamas. Draco felt flushed and warm, and his skin was covered in that soft golden down that Harry loved to touch, so faint it was almost invisible.

"Stupid reckless Slytherin," Harry whispered fondly, remembering how Draco had said almost the same words to him not long before. "Stars, but I've missed you. All those nights I spent in the hospital, not a single one went by I didn't wish I was lying beside you. Do you hear me?" he repeated, this time his question much gentler. "I remembered every single thing you'd done, and I always wanted to come back to you." Harry shifted closer to Draco, his cheek finding a comfortable crevice on the man's chest. With his ear pressed above his heart, Harry could feel it beat sure and strong. "There can be a fairytale happy ending, Draco. You've just got to come back to me."

It might have been his imagination that made Harry think Draco's heart sped up a little then, or it might have been real. At that moment, he was too weary to figure it out. The Boy Who Lived closed his eyes and soon drifted into a sleep so deep it rivalled that of the Death Eater he loved.


	19. Memento Vivere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Memento vivere**  
>  Remember to live_

When the Blood Sport first opened, it was the jewel of Diagon Alley, _the_ place for the serious sports fan. Just five years later, its lustre had faded, much like the quidditch scarves tacked on its grease-stained ceiling, and now the Queasy Quaffle at the other end of Diagon commanded the loyalty of the trendy sports crowd.

From her table near the back of the worn-down pub, Rita Skeeter lifted her Humbug Humdinger. She smiled, watching the elegant swirls of black and white liqueur in her snifter. They never blurred into grey, but became just fuzzy enough that you always thought they might. If you were foolish enough to drink two or three, you would feel just as fuzzy. Rita hadn't ordered one in years—probably not since the last time she was in the Blood Sport—but when the bartender remembered not only her but also her drink, she couldn't bring herself to refuse.

"Another one, Rita?" he asked now.

"I really shouldn't, Harvey, I'm working." _"Or I would be,"_ she fumed to herself, _"if some people had the courtesy to keep their appointments."_ Saviour of the wizarding world he might be, but Harry Potter had always struck her as less of a hero, more of a very lucky boy who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. _"An ambulance chaser,"_ her contact at the _Sun_ said the Muggles called them.

Sure enough, when that old ambulance known as You Know Who raced by once more, wouldn't you know there'd be none other than Harry Potter eating its dust. And now readers were clamouring for news of the Boy Who Lived. After five years, you would have thought they'd have moved on to something else, but no, they couldn't get enough. She'd already filed "Best Friends Forever," candid interviews with former Hogwarts classmates Cho Chang, Zacharias Smith, and the Patil sisters. She'd gotten Percy Weasley, who'd grown up with Harry, to theorise about Harry's upbringing and his almost pathological obsession to protect Muggle Britain. She'd even spent two hours with that horrible little wizard at the pet shop, enduring his flirtations just for the scoop that his employee was punctual and liked snakes. Rita found that last item to be slightly newsworthy; she was finding the first harder to believe as each minute ticked by. Harry Potter was almost an hour late—if it had been anyone else, Rita would already have stormed out in a cloud of indignation. Unfortunately, returning to her editor without the promised interview was not an option. Her readers wanted their Boy Hero, and she was determined to be the one to bag him.

A flurry of activity outside the door caught her attention. From her vantage she saw her would-be interviewee amidst a crowd of fans. _"Just eating it up, isn't he?"_ she huffed. She considered whether a covert Repelling Spell might be called for, but by the time she'd primed her Quick-Quill ( _" Wizarding Britain's most eligible bachelor arrived for our appointment with the bevy of nubile female admirers who accompany the Boy Who Lived wherever he goes..."_ ), he had already blundered his way through the doors and was scanning the bar. Rita raised a finely shaped eyebrow at the scowl on his face, noting that it grew when his gaze landed on her.

"Well, Harry," she said in greeting, standing up as he approached. "I'm so glad you could make it." Unable to resist a slight dig, she added, "I do hope our appointment is not inconveniencing you. You must be very busy these days."

( _"This handsome catch slung his arm slung casually over the back of his chair, he looked more like a carefree teenager than the man who single-handedly orchestrated the defeat of the Dark Wizard."_ )

"I figure it's best to get this over with. You'll never give me or my friends any peace until I do. Did you really go to the place I used to work?"

"Chester Critswold was very accommodating," replied Rita coolly. "Now, would you like anything to drink, Harry?"

"A butterbeer, thanks."

"And a pot of tea for me, thanks, Harvey." She smiled ingratiatingly at the bartender before returning to her subject with her most cloying voice. "Now, Harry, in the past two weeks we've discovered that the world was very different than what we remembered. I'm simply fascinated to hear about your experience. Could you tell our readers what that was like, living a life without distinction after the last war?"

The man's eyes hardened. "Hermione already told you I won't answer personal questions. If you want to talk about events going forward, fine. If not, then I should be going."

( _"His expression grew haunted when his past came up, his emerald eyes glistening with the pain of his forgotten existence..."_ )

"No, no, you're quite right," Rita assured him hastily. "I only thought that since you'd already granted an interview to the _Quibbler_ , you might appreciate the opportunity to share your story with the readers of the _Daily Prophet_. Our paper reaches a much wider audience, you know."

Harry crossed his arms and stared at her. Rita, who'd held her own against the wizarding world's most powerful politicians and business leaders, did not wither under his gaze. Nonetheless, she did admit to a little tickle at the back of her throat as she waited for him to respond. When he didn't, she finally spoke. "Going forward, then. The trials that started this week, I assume those are fair game?" He nodded so she continued, "I must have seen you at every single one, even when you weren't called to testify. Is that purely out of personal interest?"

"Not really. I'd be happy never to attend another, but the Wizengamot requested I be present."

 _"I don't remember terseness being his strong suit before,"_ Rita thought. _"If this keeps up, it'll be a short interview."_ To Harry, she said, "Well, I'm afraid it doesn't look like they'll be finished anytime soon, not with the cases they're building against the Auror Guard. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been awfully thorough in rounding up all of You Know Who's supporters, wouldn't you say?"

"Voldemort." His voice didn't stumble over the name like anyone else's would have; Rita remembered how, even as a boy, Harry had said it without flinching. She had never been convinced it was brave; it seemed simply foolish. "He's dead now, it's okay to say his name. We _need_ to start saying his name."

( _"Despite several encounters with He Who Must Not Be Named, Harry retains his childlike innocence..."_ )

"Yes, well, I'm not sure our readers are ready for that quite yet. But you mentioned that You Know Who is dead. Since he's disappeared twice before, and come back each time, can you say with absolute certainty that he really is dead this time?"

"I can. I saw him die myself."

Harry rubbed the scar on his forehead. It seemed an unconscious gesture, and he jerked his hand away as soon as he noticed Rita was watching him. To cover her attention, she asked, "But you didn't kill him?"

"No..." But Harry was still frowning at her. "You already know this story, Rita. It's been in the news for weeks now."

"It has, but our readers are interested in _your_ account of the events. You were there, you saw exactly what happened."

"It happened exactly like I testified at Madam Malfoy's trial. She asked about Draco and then..." Rita didn't miss Harry's telling scowl. "I told you, I'll answer questions about the future. But I don't want to talk about that night."

( _"Remembering the act of passion that moved the wife of You Know Who's most devoted follower, Lucius Malfoy, to take up a sword against the Dark Lord, the young hero grew sombre, troubled by dark memories of that fateful night..."_ )

Rita smiled accommodatingly, concealing her frustration at the limits on their conversation. "I'm sure your testimony was instrumental in clearing Madam Malfoy. At the trial, you were asked if you would have done the same for her husband, had he'd survived..."

"And I told them I wouldn't. Lucius was involved from the beginning; his memories were restored right at the battle of Hogwarts and he helped Voldemort escape. And you were at Warrington's trial yesterday, you heard him talking about Lucius recruiting them for the attacks. Everything was set up so people would be afraid." Harry shook his head in disbelief. "And then people like Warrington, the ones who caused the problem in the first place, joined the Auror Guard."

"It sounds like you regret that Lucius Malfoy won't be brought to trial."

Harry didn't answer; for a moment Rita feared that he had clammed up again. _"Just what I need, a tongue-tied hero."_ But then, choosing his words carefully, he said, "I do regret that in a way, because people need to hear what happened. But whether justice would be served if Lucius got the Dementor's kiss or life in Azkaban, I don't know." Harry frowned as if chiding himself for letting his thoughts wander in front of her.

( _"A product of Albus Dumbledore's tenure at Hogwarts, Harry is much more comfortable as an action hero, and seems sorely challenged by abstract notions of justice..."_ )

He brought his focus back to the reporter, casting a wary eye towards the Quick-Quill scribbling maniacally away. "I'm just not sure where justice becomes revenge. Lucius is dead, and we need to remember why, and we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. Hopefully your newspaper will help with that, Rita."

Rita arched an eyebrow at Harry's shrewd smile, irked that he had the nerve to bring up journalistic responsibility. "The _Prophet_ will report the truth, as always," she replied dismissively. "But I do think it's interesting that you hold Lucius Malfoy responsible, and yet you told the _Quibbler_ that you would fight any attempts to recover reparations from the Malfoy estate, which conveniently happens to be in his wife's name. I think most of our readers will agree when I say that it hardly seems fair for her to get off free."

"Narcissa wasn't involved," the young man said coldly. "She was a victim too, and she's already suffered enough."

His determined tone brooked no debate, but Rita had never been known to give up so easily. In fact, she was delighted that this line of questioning was leading so handily to the answer she really wanted. The Patils had spoken openly of Harry Potter's "friendship" with the Malfoy heir, but when pressed they admitted it was only hearsay; the two men had been invited to a party together, but they hadn't attended. Try as she might, Rita could not find anyone who'd actually seen them together. Not that she couldn't let the news slip out anyway—this kind of gossip was gold, even unverified—but it would have been better if she could get independent confirmation. Especially from the Boy Hero himself. Smelling the scent of the kill, Rita suggested, "The talk around town is that your, shall we say, _relationship_ with her son colours your opinion."

Magic crackled through the air a split second before he exploded. "I will _not_ discuss that!" he exclaimed angrily.

Rita looked nervously at the shivering pepper pot, her hand instinctively gravitating towards her wand. But Harry regained control of his magic quickly. He stared at the ripples on the surface of his ale before saying, "I promised that Narcissa will not lose anything else in this war. She has my protection, and I'll do everything I can so she can keep her home."

His tone was final, and at last Rita surrendered that line of questioning. For several seconds she tapped her painted nail on the edge of her teacup.

( _"Harry declined to comment on his relationship with notorious Death Eater Draco Malfoy..."_ )

"Speaking of victims," she asked, finally landing on a subject that they might safely discuss, "you were institutionalised at St. Mungo's for several months. I understand that you're now involved in helping the patients adjust to life outside?"

To her relief, Harry responded favourably to this new topic. "I'm doing what I can," he nodded. "But the real credit goes to a Healer there, Millicent Bulstrode, who's counselling the patients and their relations. But it's not going to be an easy transition for them."

( _"Pressed to recall his time as a patient in the Mental Victims wore, the shield that Harry wore slipped, revealing just how much those days had cost him."_ )

"So I take it the rumours about demanding restitution from the Ministry for these people is true?"

He nodded. "There were eighty-eight people imprisoned there for nothing more than remembering the truth. They have to start over from scratch. The Callandra Osgoode Foundation is being established to help, but it was a Ministry decree that put them in there, so I believe the Ministry owes them something. So the answer is yes, I'll do whatever I can to help them."

( _"The desire for vengeance shone in eyes hardened from the tragedies he had witnessed..."_ )

"The new Minister for Magic seems amenable to these demands. You and Minister Shacklebolt have a long history from the last war, I recall."

"We do. He's a good man. He'll do a good job."

Rita pressed her lips into a thin line. It was true that Kingsley Shacklebolt had an almost impeccable record as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That, of course, only made her more certain that there was something to dig up. "Well, he's certainly been active," she admitted. "The legislation granting the Auror Guard extraordinary powers has already been repealed. But coming back to you, Harry, I must ask the question that all of Britain is wondering: will you be joining the Ministry yourself?"

"Definitely not."

( _"Although sorely tempted by the siren song of politics, Harry Potter's true ambition lies elsewhere..."_ )

"Then what does the future hold for Harry Potter? Will you return to anonymity in the pet store?"

To Rita's surprise, Harry smiled at her for the first time that afternoon. "I just came from Hogwarts. The Headmistress has asked me to re-start their Defense Against the Dark Arts course."

"Really, Harry? Well then, let me be the first to congratulate you." Rita smiled a plastic smile; she hadn't heard a whisper of this from any of her informants.

( _"...in shaping the hearts and minds of the youngest members of our society."_ )

"But I have taken the liberty and done some research on your background," she continued, giving herself a mental pat on the back for her thoroughness, "and I don't believe that Hogwarts has ever taken on a professor with—pardon me for speaking the truth here—with such a weak academic record. What do you anticipate will be the parents' reaction?"

"I think they'll be happy that their children are receiving a vital part of their education that's been overlooked for four years," the young man said firmly. "And we'll be holding weekend programs, too, for recent graduates who didn't have the opportunity to sit the N.E.W.T. in that subject. Be sure you put that in your newspaper so they'll hear about it."

( _"Skirting the question of his qualifications, or lack thereof, Harry spoke vaguely of his plans to expand the D.A.D.A. program beyond its previous scope..."_ )

"I hope you've gotten everything you need from me," Harry said, pushing his empty glass aside and standing to leave.

If it had been any other interviewee, Rita would have pressed them with a slew of parting questions. With Harry, though, she had a feeling he'd given her all he was willing to. That just meant she'd have to fill in the blanks in between. "Thank you, Harry. You can look forward to a profile in our weekend edition."

Rita expected him to leave then, but to her surprise he stared at his reflection in the Ogden's Old Firewhisky mirror beside them. "I saw you here once before, you know. It was about five years ago, right after the Hogwarts battle. Do you remember?"

"Here in the Blood Sport?" Rita's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I have no recollection of that. Is that why you wanted to meet here?"

The man nodded, once again making her feel uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. "You were interviewing the Catapults' keeper. I stood right in front of you and you didn't even recognise me."

"Well, you must have gotten that quite a lot in those days," she replied dismissively.

"I did." He looked like he wanted to say something more, but then changed his mind. Rita watched him leave the pub and then turned to review her Quick-Quill notes. Yes, she definitely needed to fill in some blanks in the Life and Loves of Harry Potter.

The miserable January day didn't entice Harry to linger, so after the interview he Apparated directly from the Blood Sport to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. It was spotless, as usual; Kreacher was showing his pleasure at being back in the old Black home by being even more conscientious with housekeeping. He'd done a first-rate job of decorating, too, Harry had to admit, mixing new objects with the old in a way that somehow made both shine. But for some inexplicable reason, he'd left the mounted house-elf heads adorning the stairway. Harry passed them now on his way to his bedroom.

Befitting his stature, Harry had been moved into the master bedroom. When Harry suggested that he might be more comfortable in the room where he had stayed before, Kreacher had looked so ready to flay himself that Harry relented. Now he was glad he had. This room was lovely and large, with ample space for an enormous bed that would never have fit downstairs. A thick Persian rug warmed the floor and velvet curtains framed the fine view of the wooded square across the road. Harry sat on the unmade bed now and looked at the grey sky outside. _"Draco loved the snow so much."_ Narcissa's words floated through his head, and on a whim, Harry lifted his wand and touched just the tip to the windowpane. "Nevarioso," he whispered.

His vision blurred as a curtain of white suddenly unfurled before his eyes. Fat, fluffy flakes tumbled down, brightening the dark sky with thousands of prisms. Gently they began to cover the grey pavement, adorning the black leafless trees and softening their hardness with a crystal-white blanket.

"You'd better watch it. Muggles won't miss a freak blizzard, and I'd prefer to stay far away from Obliviation spells for a while, if it's all the same to you."

Harry tore himself from the snowfall to smile at his lover. Draco had just emerged from the shower, draped in his thick black bathrobe, and to Harry's delight made no move towards the wardrobe for his clothes. Instead he settled on the bed beside Harry, winding their fingers together tightly. "I do like the snow, though," he admitted, watching rapt as it fell.

"I know you do." He wondered if Malfoy remembered their vicious snowball fights at Hogwarts, the ones where he was sure that the Slytherins had spelled the snowballs. Then he squeezed the hand in his, realising that he must. Draco remembered everything.

Draco looked at him, bemused, and Harry wondered not for the first time if the Slytherin could read his thoughts. He almost asked, but chickened out at the last moment. "How'd your appointment go?"

"Milli gave me a clean bill of health. Said as long as I stay away from Zabini's rubbish spells, I should be fine."

"That's fine by me," Harry laughed. He was happy to hear the Healer's verdict, although he'd expected as much. Draco was looking better today, stronger, just as he had every day since leaving St. Mungo's. He was still too thin, but Kreacher had taken it upon himself to cater to his every whim, and Harry was certain they'd each gain a half-stone before the month was out. And since Narcissa had been cleared and returned home, the deepest wrinkles in his lover's forehead had started to fade.

"And Milli insists we come out Saturday for Blaise's send-off." Draco rubbed his palms together. "It'll be my last chance to remind him that he's an idiot."

"You know, seeing that will be well worth spending an evening with your Housemates," Harry teased. "Although, I might have to invite Ron and Hermione for backup. Then again," he added, remembering Hermione's unseemly attachment to their Slytherin colleague, "maybe it's better if he just disappears back to his pyramids."

"Granger's definitely coming, Blaise insisted." His lover's eye twinkled almost maliciously. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You know the Weasel will be there, too, and Loony and Longbottom. We'll have House unity up to our eyeballs."

Harry smirked. He knew they might never be close friends, especially not Ron and Draco. The surge of their lost memories had reopened the chasms between them. But this recent acquaintance had been indelibly marked with mutual respect, and it was enough to make Harry hope that they could at least get along.

Draco seemed to be trying, for he tactfully changed the subject to ask, "And your interview? How'd that go?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Rita's just as horrible as I remembered."

"Scoop Skeeter? Horrible?" Draco snickered. "And here I always thought her the model of integrity. Still," he added, appraising Harry's appearance, "you look like you survived. The trials yesterday left you wiped."

"They're just hard, you know." Harry took a deep breath. "I know they're necessary, but everybody is looking for someone to blame. I did that for years, and it never got me anywhere."

"They feel helpless," Draco ventured. "It's the same thing I'd see warding homes. People need somebody to tell them that they're safe, that the boogiemen are gone." His lips twitched downward. "Although I guess they are now."

"I'm sorry..." Harry started, for about the hundredth time, but Draco cut him off.

"I'm not." He looked like he was about to say more, and Harry wondered if at last his lover might be ready to talk about his father's death, but then Draco took a breath and the moment slipped away. Now it was a different man looking at him expectantly. "But I wasn't asking about your interview with Skeeter. What happened at Hogwarts?"

"Oh, _that_ interview," replied Harry coyly.

Grey eyes squinted into suspicions. "Listen, Potter, it might not be easy for an ex-Death Eater to get ahold of Veritaserum, but I swear I'll raid the Wizengamut myself if you don't spill."

Harry beamed even as he tried to contain his laughter. "You're looking at the new DADA instructor."

The wind was suddenly knocked out of him by a burst of enthusiastic Malfoy. "I knew it!" Draco exclaimed, his certainty wrapping Harry in a bone-crushing hug.

"So Professor McGonagall told me to call her Minerva..." confessed Harry.

"She did not!"

Harry laughed when Draco fell back, eyes wide and hands clutching his heart. "She certainly did. _And_ she asked about you."

"I can hear her now: 'Mr. Malfoy, fifty House points for not being a complete twat,'" Draco joked, nailing even nuance of McGonagall's clipped brogue.

"Close, but not quite. She mentioned that Professor Slughorn's retiring at the end of the year. She said they're looking for a Potions professor. I..." Harry fixed his eyes on their joined hands, hoping against hope that he hadn't overstepped his bounds. "I told her that I might have someone in mind."

If he'd been expecting another enthusiastic response from Draco, Harry would have been disappointed. Still he didn't expect him to go completely silent. When he glanced up, he saw that the playful expression had disappeared from Draco's face.

 _"Fuck."_

Harry had never been any good at knowing when to wait and when to rush into things—at least not where relationships were concerned. He either missed opportunities by waiting too long or blew them by pushing too fast. And with Draco ... a lifetime of animosity followed by two months of mind-blowing sex, followed by two months of forced separation, followed by a daring rescue. Not quite the standard relationship path, was it? And suddenly Harry was talking about, in essence, moving in with him. All right, not quite, that certainly hadn't been a subject he'd broached with McGonagall, but even assuming that Draco wanted to teach was taking a big liberty. They'd not talked about his future, and Harry had no idea what the other man wanted. But Draco _was_ keen on potions, and it'd be a terrible shame if he didn't consider this opportunity just because he wasn't keen on _them_. And Harry rushed to assure him of that.

"You don't have to worry about me, Draco ... about us. We don't have to be together if you don't want ... friends, maybe, I'd like that, until we see how things are going ... what you want..."

Draco's grey eyes slowly focused on him, his expression so confused that Harry wondered if perhaps he'd just been babbling in another language. "What?"

"I just don't think you should turn down the position because of me, because I'm moving too fast or something. I mean, I know it's only been two months since we..."

Harry never finished, because Draco's lips crushed his words. "Not two months, Harry," he said after kissing him thoroughly. "Try twelve years."

Harry blinked. "Twelve years?"

"You twonk. You were always there, even if you _were_ the bane of my existence. It's not normal to be that obsessed with someone—Blaise was always telling me that, and he was right."

"Really?" But Harry felt it, too. That same obsession had driven him; he'd tailed the Slytherin through endless hallways, been glued to Malfoy's dot on the Marauder's Map, and always, _always_ craved knowing exactly where the other boy was.

"Really. And then afterwards..." Draco hand cupped Harry's chin, and his smile gradually spread as he studied his face. "Even when I didn't remember, I _knew_." The smile turned to a smirk—which Harry recognised as quite similar to the sneer he'd known for over a decade, without the malice behind it. "But you probably just assumed I always dropped trou that fast, didn't you."

Harry blushed. "I thought you might," he admitted.

"Well, yeah, sometimes I do. I _did_ ," Draco corrected himself.

That tiny amendment meant the world to Harry, giving him the courage to ask, "What do you think of coming to Hogwarts with me, then?"

"I don't know." He frowned, the faint lines criss-crossing his forehead marking the patterns of his thoughts. "Honestly, I'm not sure I'd be any good at it."

"Potions or teaching?"

Draco's forehead crinkled even more. "Both, really, but Potions, mostly. It's been years since I worked with them in any serious way."

"Minerva already thought of that," Harry said, emphasising her name just to see Draco wince. "She suggested that you spend the term helping Professor Slughorn. It's not a Potions Master course, by any means, but it'd get you up to speed. And she's making me re-sit my N.E.W.T.s next year; I could really use your help."

Draco was still frowning, but he seemed to be considering it. "Can you picture me giving the 'stoppering death' speech to a bunch of first years?"

"I can," Harry nodded confidently. "In fact, I think you'll be even better at it than Snape."

"You would say that. You always were atrocious in Potions."

"I'm sure you'll have superior motivational techniques than Snape."

Draco gave him a shove onto the bed. "I should bloody well hope so," he huffed, stretching himself over Harry. "And it's never too early for you to start earning extra credit."

Harry let his legs fall open, let Draco's weight settle between them. "I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy."

"Milli says I've made a full recovery. Want to see?"

"It couldn't hurt to get a jump on my studies," Harry murmured, setting his glasses aside before pulling his lover's face toward him. Playful at first, grinning between light nibbling kisses and teasing darting tongues, they kissed with their eyes wide open, indulging in the certainty that they had time to spare. But that was only until Draco sucked hard on Harry's bottom lip at the same time as he ground his hips harder. Suddenly, every bit of Harry's conscious thought went racing down between his legs. Suddenly, he needed more of this man.

Harry's hands slid under the fine cotton bathrobe, grasping at the bare skin still radiating heat from the shower. Draco's skin felt exceptionally soft, the slope of his back exquisitely formed, and the curve of his bottom ... Harry couldn't help it, he moaned as his fingers stretched out along that arse that fit so perfectly in his hand. Between his parted lips Draco's tongue plunged; the playfulness was gone, now he was openly demanding. Harry's stiffening cock was issuing similar demands as it rocked into the crease of his lover's hip, but his scratchy winter robes made for an uncomfortable prophylactic. "Clothes..." he gasped into Draco's mouth, "...hate clothes."

Harry was unsure if he'd been heard, because the tone of their kiss hardly changed, but then he felt his lover's chest shake with amusement, and after a moment he sat up. "Induviae desvestus," he whispered, with nothing more than a single touch of Harry's outer robe. Immediately their clothing disappeared, rematerializing on the wing-backed chair on the far side of the room. And now Draco was staring down possessively, like a king in a parapet surveying his lands and finding them much to his liking. Harry basked in this gaze, enjoying his own view of the stunning wizard. Draco's lips were swollen from kisses, bruised crimson staining purest porcelain. Still-damp hair caressed his long graceful neck and swung round his chin, darker where the fine strands clung together, shimmering like white gold. And those eyes, gone dusky as twilight, spun an enchantment around them, endless desire and utter fulfillment winding together eternally.

"I want you to teach me wandless magic," Harry said softly, hesitant to break the spell.

Draco frowned peevishly, although strangely Harry didn't think it diminished his beauty in the least. "You're taking this student thing a bit far, Potter."

"Not now, you git." Harry's fingertips smoothed the faint hairs on Draco's chest. "Now I want to feel you inside me."

The frown fled as Draco lowered himself onto his lover. "That I can definitely do."

Draco felt heavy, solid, his weight welcome after his recent frailty. Skin to skin they were now, a thousand times better in Harry's opinion. Spreading his legs wider, his cock slid into place flush against Malfoy's. His lover's forehead fell to Harry's shoulder as they began to grind together, slow and precise, their undulations a prelude to the wilder dance to come. Harry felt his senses swell, inundated with all things Draco. The chilled wet skin as his lover laved his throat ... the hint of salt he tasted as he sucked Draco's fingers ... the faintest scent of sandalwood shampoo ... the sharp intake of breath in Harry's ear when they thrust together harder than before. Merlin, the more he had of this man, the more he needed.

Harry ran his hand along the line of Malfoy's hip, slipping between their sweat-slicked bodies until he found Draco's sac, tight as an overripe plum. Squeezing it gently elicited another gasp and a sharp bite of his neck. Harry slid his hand up the length of Draco's cock. Like the man himself, Malfoy's erection stood long and straight; it throbbed as Harry's hand reached round his girth, and Harry moaned at the thought of how it would feel deep inside him.

When Draco started his slow crawl down Harry's body, and the friction between their bodies disappeared, Harry almost grumbled. But open-mouthed kisses pressed along the hinge of his jaw stilled his protests, and as they mapped the side of his neck, travelling west across his clavicle and dipping south to affront his nipples, Harry abandoned every complaint. Malfoy lapped at the pebbled nubs like a thirsty cat, his sharp little teeth ratcheting up the sensations when Harry's fingers tightened in his hair. Harry fisted the sheet with his other hand, holding himself together even as his body begged to explode. Malfoy's fingertips circling the sensitive head of his cock did nothing for his control, and Harry whimpered as he thrust wantonly against Draco's hand.

Wet sucking heat replaced that firm grip, sliding down Harry's length like a snug velvet glove and sending out ripples of intense pleasure all the way to Harry's toes. Harry wanted to plunge himself into that blissful heat, needed to feel himself completely enveloped in that sleek wet heaven, but he'd only begun tensing his hips when a firm hand squeezed his balls hard, a reminder of who was in charge. When Harry forced back his building climax, he was rewarded by inquisitive, insistent fingers exploring the cleft of his arse. Not caring how eager it seemed, Harry's legs sprawled wider, begging Malfoy to continue.

Stopping his exertions on Harry's cock for just a moment, Draco murmured a quiet lubrication spell before his sleek finger breached Harry's hole. Shuddering, Harry bore down on the intruder, thankful it was Malfoy's longest that slid deep into his channel. But he wanted more, was absolutely dying for more, and even a second finger did little to staunch his hunger. "Want you, Draco," he gasped out, lifting his head to look at his lover. Malfoy tortured him by sucking even harder and penetrating him with a third finger, staring at Harry all the while through eyes dark as thunderclouds. The extraordinary sight of those rosy lips around his glistening cock almost unravelled Harry. "Please, Draco, I need you to fuck me."

Malfoy's lips smiled around Harry's shaft. "Desperation's a good look for you," he teased as he sat up, tugging Harry's ankles onto his shoulders.

 _"Stars, how does he look mischievous and haughty and so incredibly desirable at the same time?"_ Harry didn't care about desperation, and he didn't care how vulnerable he was as his body folded in on itself, revealing his most hidden place to his erstwhile enemy. "Fuck, Malfoy, just fuck me already." Harry tried to glower, but he doubted it was very effective, seeing how Draco was grinning.

But at least he did as he was told, which at the moment was all that Harry cared about. Straight into Harry's channel he slid, one smooth glide that didn't stop until Draco's balls pressed flush against Harry's back. Harry felt his overstretched muscles burn, skating along the exquisite edge of pain as Draco withdrew and penetrated him again and again. And Harry wanted more, so much more. Digging his fingernails deep enough to leave half-moons in Draco's thighs, Harry urged him on, faster, harder, wanting to feel that smouldering ache, that physical proof of Draco's presence. With each thrust there was just a bit more of that delicious friction, a bit more burning heat, until pain ignited into the purest pleasure. The men moved perfectly together, energy and magic flowing between them as smoothly as blood pumping through a single body. And when they came, and he heard Draco breathe out his given name, Harry was certain that nothing else in the world existed save the two of them.

Draco collapsed without ceremony, so spent he could barely roll off Harry's stomach. Harry was just as exhausted himself, his arms so heavy he wondered whether he could reach his wand to clean their sticky bellies. Only when the room began to feel chilly against his sweaty skin did he summon the energy to do so.

As they pulled the warm bedcovers up around them, Draco rolled onto his side, his arm cradling his head as he studied Harry. He appeared deep in thought, and Harry waited for him to speak. It took several minutes before he finally said, "Do you really think I should come to Hogwarts with you?"

"I think you should do what you want. But I would like it if you decided to, very much."

Draco smiled mysteriously at Harry before rolling onto his back. "There's the answer to your question right there."

"What question is that?"

"The question you've asked me almost every day since I got out of the hospital: Why I stood with you against the Dar– against Voldemort."

Harry replayed the last part of their conversation, trying in vain to pick out any clues to Draco's nebulous reasoning. At last he admitted, "I don't understand."

Draco chuckled softly. "Of course you don't. It's so obvious to you, you don't even see it."

"So are you going to explain or are you just going to be a smug bastard?"

"I can't do both?"

Harry threw a half-hearted punch at his lover's chest, which Draco easily defused by burying his fingers inside the loose fist.

"You're right, it wasn't bravery. I told Weasley about St. Mungo's because I was terrified that He'd get ahold of you."

"You can be afraid and be brave too..."

Draco cut him off before he could finish. "Shut it, Potter. I've heard all that tripe, and I understand that it works for you, but it doesn't for me." His tone gentled. "I didn't help the Weasel because I was brave. I did it because it seemed like a relatively safe way to get the job done, that's all. And I'm fine with that."

"But what you did that night, that wasn't safe at all. You might not have survived. And Millicent said..." Harry hesitated to bring up the guilt that had gnawed at the back of his mind since talking to the Healer, but he had to know if he really was to blame for it. "She said that even might be what you wanted."

"Yeah," Draco sighed. "I was afraid she might've said something like that to you. She tried to bring that up again today—how I need to 'own the destructive impulses driven by my unbearable guilt.' Frankly, I think all those psych courses she's taken have warped her good Slytherin instincts. Granted, now that I remember everything, there are things I wish I'd done differently. But going out in a blaze of glory was hardly going to make up for making 'Potter Stinks' badges, was it? Or even for trying to kill Dumbledore."

Feeling the weight on his shoulders start to budge, Harry turned to face his lover. "Then you didn't do it because you thought I'd hate you?"

"What would have been the sense in that? I suspect I've more chance of changing your mind alive than dead." Draco flashed a lusty grin that made Harry's cheeks go warm. Then he shrugged. "Besides, what would I have gotten out of that? Sorry, Potter, but the thought of you pining over my tragic redemption doesn't do much for me."

"Fair enough," conceded Harry as casually as he could, although he felt lighter than he had in days. "And I'm glad you stuck around to change my mind. But you've only told me why you didn't do it, not why you did."

"You asked me what it was I wanted."

Draco stopped there, seeming to think that explanation was enough. But Harry was as baffled as before. He expected more, he _needed_ more, and he squeezed Draco's hand impatiently. "Yeah? And?"

"It's so obvious to you that you don't even notice it," Draco said, chuckling with disbelief. "Harry, don't you see? Nobody ever asked me that before. Well, not anyone I trusted, anyway. Dumbledore did, I suppose, but that was to suit his own purposes. And my father..." Draco's voice faltered and his lips froze even as a flood of emotion poured across his features. They passed so rapidly that Harry couldn't begin to identify them. He wondered if they'd stolen Draco's tongue away, but after a moment the man spoke again, his voice rougher than before. "I loved my father, but it will be hard to forgive him. He made his choices, and then he made them mine. Everything was laid out for me, my classes, my career, even the position I'd play on the Quidditch team. Harry, as soon as I got home for Christmas seventh year, he congratulated me because I was going to be branded with the Mark. As if I'd applied for the privilege or something. And Voldemort..." Draco snorted, but there wasn't an ounce of humour in the sound. "The only choice he ever gave me was whether to cruciate you or my mother."

Harry didn't know what to say. It wasn't pity he felt; he knew too well what it felt like to be on an inevitable course, and he could empathise with the futility that came with wrestling against your own destiny. But he'd been able to stay that course because he believed it was the right one. Draco hadn't even had that reassurance. He'd simply followed, unquestioningly, obediently. "That's not right ... that's not you," Harry said quietly, thinking how the Draco he knew must have chafed at such an existence. He understood now. Draco had made his stand because he wanted to decide his own future, one in which he was true to himself. And for the first time he recognised that he could.

It was only after the words left his tongue that Harry realised they wouldn't make sense to anyone who wasn't privy to his thoughts. Once again, though, Draco was able to follow them, though, for his sad expression evaporated as a wide smile filled his face. "No, that's not me at all." He rolled over to face Harry, his thumb tracing the line of Harry's jaw. "I'm twenty-three years old, and it's time I finally decided for myself what I really want."

There was no need for Harry to ask if he was included in that. In the day's last light, Draco's face was completely unguarded; he didn't need any mask, not when he could be whoever he wanted to be. And the kiss he pressed to Harry's lips was more convincing than words could ever be.

It snowed all through that long January night, the deepest snow that London had seen in years. Children still home for the holidays built armies of snowmen with carrot noses and coal-black eyes, and couples strolling down the snow-covered pavement held mittened-hands as they ducked around the frosty sentries. Old folks sat before their tellies, drinking hot cocoa and watching meteorologists scratch their heads at the unforeseen blizzard. Around Grimmauld Square, where the snow seemed to be the heaviest, drifts stretched along the length of the wrought iron fences, their peaked angles corralling a sparkling white sea.

And in a townhouse high above the park slept two men who, no longer haunted by their pasts, could for the first time dream of happily ever after.

~~~ The End ~~~


End file.
